Wings of the Damned
by Howlynn
Summary: Began as a KINK fill, Sherlock non-con John. I decided to twist it a bit. There is an event, there will be shots fired, there will be a fall, there will be pain. This isn't your normal RBF reunion and there is some slashy Johnlock and some Irenelock. Subjects mature, but handled with care. Do not read if you are trigger happy.
1. Chapter 1 Forethought

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ This started as a kink fill – the prompt was-**BDSM Sherlock non-con John.** But the more I thought about it – the more I wanted to do it with some twists – Oh yes there is an event –there will be shots fired and there will be a fall. But this is not going to go the way most of the reunions go. I will play with your heart, play with the motives, and you won't like my games. If you are trigger happy, don't read. That's all the warning you get. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**Chapter 1 - forethought**

**James Moriarty – "If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the heart…right out of you."**

That promise had been long ago, and Sherlock had been thus vigilant, accordingly protective of John, subsequently patient with his obtuse determination to misinterpret each gesture of overture. John would die for him without a second thought, yet he remained faithful to his delusions of what he thought life should be, unable to see that denial by denial, he is slowly killing Sherlock.

"I am not actually gay," John repeated to someone at least once a week. Everyone saw, except for John.

'That' had become the enemy. It's not like 'that' between Sherlock and I. We are not 'That' kind of partners. We are not 'that' way. 'That' doesn't mean we are a couple.

Perhaps 'that' is the one thing that hurts the most. He did love Sherlock. Sherlock could not doubt that one true, one absolute thing. John is attracted to men, though it obviously exists outside his conscious comfort zone. Sometimes a look passes between John and Lestrade that quite assures Sherlock of this fact. John found men attractive. John did not want people to know he sometimes looked at men with the same lusty eyes he reserved for almost every female with a pulse, unless they were excluded as patients, too young, too old, too far out of his league or in need of emergency bariatric surgery. But, John's vast spectrum of taste did not include his flat-mate. John did not find Sherlock Holmes attractive.

It is beyond his comprehension how John could be so easily flirtatious with the Detective Inspector, so comfortable with their easy banter, yet miss how hard Sherlock tries to impress him. Sherlock can understand the disconnection between love and sexual attraction. He is often sexually attracted to people he dislikes or feels nothing for. It is true he has a hard time with love. It has never paid for Sherlock to love anyone, not once. It is nothing but pain. He tries to stay away from anyone who might tempt his heart. He planned to never feel that emotion again. Of course, that isn't the way it works. Some people sneak up on him.

But, once he loved someone outside of familial relationships, they automatically were attractive. He normally pushed people he loved out the door as rudely as possible. John had not been especially pretty when they first met, but as Sherlock's heart and mind had become infatuated, so had the damned transport.

Sherlock would have given up long ago, if he were not so certain that John did love him. John could not deny that he loved Sherlock deeply. That was written all over him by gesture and phrase and indulgence. John passed each test Sherlock ever placed before him. He proved his heart was bound to his wayward, incorrigible flat mate as he feigned anger, but still dashed to Tesco for the milk. He put up with him, and his brother, and his many traits designed specifically to distance himself from the rabble.

John did love him, but he could not make the leap of faith it took to honestly say that he was in love with Sherlock. John was stubborn in his proclamation that he was not attracted to men. Of course, the 'not a couple' routine, in fact, wounded Sherlock to his core, but he had accepted John's barbed comments with the same fortitude he accepted Donovan's 'Freak' label.

Coming from John, those words were, in fact, a sort of label. It declared to Sherlock's mind that John found him as repulsive as he found the thought of physical relations with most people he met day to day. People were too much trouble. Sex didn't have to be surrounded by messy obligations and all the useless data required to seduce a willing partner into the conventional ramifications of life smearing boredom. Other means were so much cleaner for long term gratification without professed commitment.

That had always been his experience, until he met John Watson. For John, Sherlock could see the lure of the pair bond. He would move all outdated data for a chance to hand his whole world to the man who had swept all his truth away. He had not been diligent with John and now he is trapped.

The choice is, to tell him, and lose something almost perfect. That can no longer be considered an option. His other choice, is not painless. He can continue to pretend, and keep his foolish hope to himself, and be content to wait for John to change his mind. He knows it may never be all that he wants with John. He would rather spend a lifetime, loved by this man, than another day in the world without him. He hopes and yes it hurts him, but some of John's heart is enough.

Life began after John. Before, he existed with all things he believed catalogued in black and white. John brought greens and yellows and greys to the world. But, he is stuck. He couldn't lose John, but he couldn't quite have him either. John didn't want him. John was not dazzled and charmed by any open desire for tall men with wild hair and the pale skin of an exsanguinated corpse. He is not able to win John's physical desire and it was labor for him to not give in to his own darker abilities. John is too important to be tricked. John must be won on a far different level then Sherlock has ever attempted, or not at all. He had come to understand that the doctor must find him physically vile to have turned his head away without a blink each time Sherlock tried to let a flirty look or comment hang without response.

Not everyone found him hideous of course; there is Molly, with her glassy worshipful eyes and her easily manipulated hopeful heart on her sleeve.

Molly is not unattractive or even stupid, but she is also not someone who he could reasonably date with any kindness. He cares for her. Wouldn't she jump for joy at the truth, if not the reasoning? He thinks too highly of her to ever torture her soft sweet little heart with the reality of the bitter minefield of devious controlling mind games he would bring to the table. No, Molly would be broken, consumed and spit out unrecognizable if he were cruel enough to do her the unmitigated disservice of giving in to her diminutive fantasy. She only saw him at his best and spent at least half of their interactions playing the crushed flower. Good Lord, he is actually being considerate by not subjecting her to his attentions. She could manage his quiet and perhaps even his cruelty, to some degree, but she didn't have the fortitude of spirit to survive his darkness.

No one did.

John is a survivor. Maybe it is that instinct that shies him away from any physical expression. So this left Sherlock in an eternally frustrated and perfectly counterbalanced conundrum. Either John had found some physical detail or routine of Sherlock's to be repellent or he instinctively fears letting a sociopath see his heart. He is brave with his life, but not brave with his heart?

No, he askes women out all the time. He slept with them and the second one dumped him on his head, he had the next one on his arm before the sheets were laundered. The doctor dealt with rejection, poor hygiene, annoying perfumes and cats. John would shag a polar bear if it could refrain from chewing on him for three minutes and the smell of polar bear was singularly offensive.

Her name had been Margaret or Madge perhaps. The polar bear, with bleached white hair, a whiny growl of a voice, and no perfume could hide that offensive toxin she produced as a personal scent. When she sweat, she reeked of zoo. John only admitted to noticing, once she'd put an end to the shagging. Sherlock smiled at how easily she'd been driven away.

He tried to solve any imagined flaw John had come to associate with his personal hygiene.

Sherlock has taken his grooming habits to new levels around John, except when he is three days in despair and sawing his pain into his violin. Since John had arrived, his black moods didn't last as long as they once had, but unfortunately, his flat-mate failed to realize he had become a catalyst to the frequency. John could rip his heart out with a look; his words could send him off a cliff into bleak water. John had yet to put together cause and effect or maybe he really didn't care.

Sherlock has never tried so hard to reach out to anyone, not in an honest way at least. He could have had Dr. Watson in the sack within an hour if he exercised his usual tactics. Of course he would lose John after the third or fourth shag. That was usually when his glamor wore thin, and the victims of his fake emotional mimicry began to see the vampire behind the pretty teeth. He had been called that on several occasions. Oh he didn't slurp up blood or live in some delusion of immortality, but he wasn't so sure they were very far off in the assessment either.

One had kindly taken the time to explain as he'd put on his trousers and tearfully made his exit. Emotional vampire, he'd clarified, "You suck the life out of everyone around you! You take and use and discard, and think your great brain will make up for what a fucking tosser you are? Good luck with that. What good is that glorious mass of gunk between your ears if it can't stop you from ending up alone? Not so smart after all are you, Genius?"

Alone worked. Alone was perfect.

Except when it wasn't.

John is his exception. Alone would now be a heinous existence. He isn't above telling fate, "No, thank you."

He isn't any sort of virgin, has no idea why The Woman had played that card, other than the fact he'd rejected her. It wasn't a matter of inexperience, but simple preference. He did not require a dominatrix. He detested the thought of being mastered. Of course, nobody knew of their history. They had both had to play that one carefully. They had been dancing around on different resonate octaves for several years now. She had tried to seduce him, he her, yet there was always, always some roadblock and walking in on one of her scenes three years ago had brought Sherlock to a gut wrenching full stop. No. Thank you, hell no.

Where did everyone suppose he got the damned riding crop? Idiots. The woman, now she was pure danger. Adler. Last time it had been Drakon. Before that Arach. The Adder is the only poisonous snake in England. Irene, Lillian, whatever she would be hailed the next time they met, well, he deserved someone like her.

His emergency trip down to Karachi, Pakistan had finally sealed that something quiet and true had slipped between them. He had surprised her, impressed her, and revealed his hand. Win, lose, win, the woman of countless games. He deserved a twisted cold viper. She is all desire and risk and power tournaments and the fact he can both triumph and fail in the same play is fascinating. The fact he has never crumbled, affects her. She is used to being unchallenged. He is exotic food to a fellow snake. Important, but not really love.

If he asked her, would she know what he's done to defeat himself with John? She had been so certain he and John were something meant to be, a fairytale kind of meeting. Could she be so wrong? It was so predictable that he'd somehow made total pants of the situation. The real question would be, even after saving her life, would she bother to save his, or toy with him because it amused her. Pakistan had been horrendously hot. If he held his breath, he could hear her. She had expected to find disappointment in his bed. Who could guess if she would sabotage or help him?

Sherlock and John return to the flat after dinner one night. It was one of those dates in which John volunteered to strangers that they 'are not on a date' so by the end of it, Sherlock is close to vomiting it hurts so much and he smiles and hums at John's merciless light banter. Eventually he catches on that Sherlock is on his way to one of his roaring black falls.

"I guess there is no avoiding it, is there?"

Sherlock cocks his head with interest, wondering if John is finally going to address their long overdue discussion. "No. Not really." Sherlock says, eyes shining just a little and heart pounding in hope.

"I could prescribe you something."

"Really? Like a date rape drug?"

John stops walking toward the kitchen. When he turns back, Sherlock winks. John laughs and curses then fumbles about in the kitchen for a few moments.

Sherlock steeples his fingers and remains silent, waiting to see if John will return a flirtatious remark.

"I was actually being serious, you know." John continues with a small smile, setting a mug of tea before Sherlock and rubbing his eyes as if he has the beginning flutters of a headache.

"You have no idea if it would be of any benefit. " Sherlock looks confused. "I am not dysfunctional John. Selective, but…"

"Is that what you call it? Selective? " John's voice is so very stern.

Sherlock lifts his chin, wondering if John could have the gall to have figured out and disapprove of the fact he finds cash transactions less complex than dredging into people's lives on false pretenses. "Just because I don't parade my personal life before the world, doesn't mean I am incapable of having one," Sherlock explains_. Is that what has stopped John? He's made some leap of certainty that Sherlock cannot maintain or perhaps achieve erection?_

"Is that personal life affecting your health? Yes, it is. It is easy for me to watch? It terrifies me…"

"And you think a few pills will make me what, good enough for you?"

"It's not about me, you bloody arse…"

"Well nobody else has complained, thank you. I don't know what it matters to you anyway, what I do or don't do; it isn't as if you have been inclined to admit that you have any interest. Who do you think you are? Judging me, when you bring one tramp after another into our home expecting me to be jolly pleased to meet them."

John's forehead crumples into rows and ridges. "First, who I bring home has no bearing whatsoever on you erratic mood swings. Second, I will date who I damned well please and you do not call them horrible names any more. To their face or in my presence, because your view on women is…"

"Is what? Irrelevant? Thank you for making that perfectly clear. Don't bother to wait up, John. My cock may not be your cup of tea, but I can assure you, it doesn't require your assistance or chemical enhancement to function. I am certain I can find less discerning company to lower themselves to my mediocre standards."

"What? Sherlock, where are you? I don't. Fine," he growls as Sherlock slams the door.

Sherlock doesn't look back toward the window, but he pauses to put on his gloves and watches a car window. In the reflection he sees the curtain part and John standing there watching him. Sherlock keeps his face aloof, giving no hint how the injury screams inside_. It is nothing. I don't exist. It doesn't matter._

Mycroft's calm voice of long ago sooths him, strengthens him. "Never give anyone the satisfaction of your tears, my brother. They will always hate you. Hate them back, for cool calculated anger is strength. Life is not fair but patient avarice always wins. If you beat them, they must supplicate. Winners tell the tales. Sentiment is failure. You will always win, so nothing they say matters. Normal is the shame of the masses and you should never strive to be like them. Their rage is your friend though they are not. Spark their rage, never showing your own, and the battle is over."

His back stiffens as his soul exudes its will to detach from the pain and he steps into the street to hail a cab. He has no location in mind at first, but John doesn't get to know that. For all he knows, Sherlock is off to a high class den of inequity. He actually knows where to go for such entertainment, and just in case John bothers to follow, he will see Sherlock dropped off at one.

He pays the driver and ducks into a shop for cigarettes. Sure enough, he spots John lurking in the shadows across the street. He must check his phone to see if his brave tin soldier has taken steps to track him_. So apparent John, you never could have followed me. _He lights a cigarette and blows the smoke upward, pretending not to notice his observer. He paces as he smokes, then stamps out the cigarette and enters the rather unremarkable looking club, swinging the door wider than necessary, so John will be sure to see what sort of establishment this is.

Sherlock shows his card and informs the clerk that he is expecting a guest.

John waits twenty minutes before slipping in the door. He is stopped and Sherlock watches him crumple in disgust as he's handed a guest pass bearing his flat-mate's name and under that simply 'John'. Sherlock maneuvers in the shadows as John searches for his face and gets his bearings.

He settles himself at the end of the bar and orders something, eyes darting uncomfortably but he is also amazed. His attention is like a laser right now, and that power in John always makes Sherlock's stomach flutter. John is scanning the main floor orgy, the voyeur rooms. The reek of sex in the air and his mouth keeps hanging open. This place makes John both recoil in shock and eagerly attentive. Sherlock is amused by the jumbled thoughts and reactions of the supposedly open-minded, seen-it-all Doctor.

John wants to know more about this place far more than he wants to leave. John's forehead glistens with sweat and Sherlock covers his grin with his fingers_. Finally found something that makes you afraid._ John keeps trying to focus on his search, but his eyes keep locking back to the writhing mass of human bodies down in the Mosh Pit. John tugs at his jumper, shakes his head slightly and finally lets himself get swept away in pure astonishment. Sherlock waits until John's focus is drawn away from his hiding place then slides up behind him silently.

When John spins around, he reacts to the familiar face being so close, and Sherlock's quick reflexes are all that saves John's drink from tumbling into his olive-drab jumper. "Hoping to drum up a few patients for your Sildenafil citrate sideline or are you really just hoping to catch me having a dodgy shag. I can't quite decide whether I should be insulted, flattered, invite you to have a go or punch you. This is an upscale establishment. Really John, do you think your boring little jumper and your rampant prescription offerings will win over this crowd? I'd lose the jumper and wave the pads. So, anything catch your fancy? I will be happy to make introductions."

"Jesus, Sherlock. Is this where you go for.."

"Sex, John. Yes. One of the places. I daresay I require the frustrated shower wank on a far smaller percentage than you. " Sherlock smirks in satisfaction at the flush display of embarrassment but continues as fast as he can speak, " I don't spend weeks on promises and hope, I simply get laid while you get lead up the garden path. I don't have to buy them flowers, or remember the names of their cats. I don't even have to drink their damned tea or put up with their tiny judgmental minds. It is a physical act, kept entirely in perspective and therefore I can remain unconsumed by the complications. There, now you know. It's been such fun, sweetheart. Stay, enjoy yourself. At least give it a go before you condemn me on your pathetic deductions. Still think my lad is so…"

"Dammit, I wasn't offering you pills for erectile difficulties, you idiot. I was offering you anti-depressants, so I wouldn't come home to find you with a bloody needle in your arm or… I don't know, wake up to Lestrade having to call me to pop down to the morgue and identify the bloated corpse that floated under the Tower Bridge. Do you even care what that would do to me?"

Sherlock leans in and studies John. "Anti-depressants? Pills designed to alter brain chemistry. Let me think. Pass. Legal does not equal safe. And I am not altogether sure that I do care right this second, John. Funny how you mention that. I am an oblivious moron? Again, your opinions on insignificant details. The results. The outcome rather than the motive. Try harder."

"Sherlock, what is happening here? I don't even know why you are so angry with me."

"Ah. That's all sorted then, nothing more to go on about. I do recommend the offerings on the third floor. Put it on my tab." Sherlock sets his own drink on the bar so hard, John flinches.

Sherlock turns and leaves. He is out the door and gone in the night before any more damage can be calibrated to his hearts coordinates. He wanders. It is long past time for John to have gone to work before he returns. In the shower he silently sobs. He hates that he is so weak and so he forces it away, refuses to dress or eat or acknowledge the sound of the cannon when his fusilier returns home. He fades from the room as surely as hope ebbs from him.

John is angry. He blathers on about something for some time, but it is just sound. Shutting down is Sherlock's safety. He is not doing this to John, but for his own preservation. In this frame of mind, if he continues to function, he gets self-destructive. He hides under the water, refusing to engage the world. The world is far better armed and his mind so easily consumes him, it is almost like a fugue form of vacation. He whispers snips of his internal passage and sometimes he lets the violin scream for him, cry for him and over and over his bow shouts and begs for John to give him one single chance.

Patches soothe him. Keep him submerged as he plays deeper and deeper into the waves. His hand aches and his neck shrieks as he sways and nearly can smell and taste each note. Bitter. Sweet. Salty.

John doesn't understand how clearly he speaks, how much he has to tell him, because he expects words. He cannot hear Sherlock's true voice, and nothing will matter until John listens. Time glitches and lurches. John is there, and then not, and then there again. It is the fourth day when Sherlock gives up the instrument and collapses. John finds him late in the evening. He did not come straight home. Instead he'd gone out. There is beer and bangers on his breath and he reeks of some coital odor.

The sun is up. Johns hand on his throat, feeling for a pulse, slithers him into reality. It is dehydration, not food that has led to him looking up into blue eyes, hard and firm. He feels sticky and horrible. John smells just of John again.

"You have 134 text messages, Mrs. Hudson needs the rent and if you don't eat every bite and drink the whole pot of tea, I am packing."

Sherlock looks up at his tormentor. He rolls his eyes, and hunkers his shoulders in protest. "What day is it?"

"It's Tuesday. What did you take?" John's voice is calm.

"No idea. Couldn't make it stop. It's over there." Sherlock waves vaguely towards his dresser.

"Sherlock, for God's sake, these were prescribed for a toothache four years ago."

"Well good. It isn't hurting at all, they worked," Sherlock says obtusely watching John's reaction out of the corner of his eye while sipping the steaming, oversweet tea.

"You are saying you had a toothache?" John glares at him incredulously.

"Obviously. It was ghastly. Feels fine now though." He slides his tongue along his cheek for effect.

John shoves his hands in his pocket and looks to the ceiling. He sighs and shakes his head, "Unbelievable."

Sherlock bites his toast defiantly.

"You wish me to believe that you suffered a toothache for the last six days and didn't bother to say a single word."

"I don't wish. Not for anything of importance, " Sherlock mumbles the last part. "If I eat this, are you going to leave anyway?'

"Does it matter? To You?" John asks head cocked eyes squinting, arms folded.

"Certainly. If you are leaving me one way or another, there is no reason for me to attempt to keep this down."

"If I prescribe you something, to help you cope with…this. Will you…"

"mmmmmm , No. Cocaine has fewer side effects and considering my history, I doubt that mood crash if I forget to take them would be particularly survivable. I will forget to take them. I am not actually suicidal you know. Do you wish me to be?"

"Don't be ridiculous. What is this, do you think? "

Sherlock slugs down his tea like it is medicine. "Wrong question. Pay attention to what it isn't. That's the good part. I am having a shower. Join me if it will make you feel better." Sherlock stands and stretches. John eyes his plate and looks at Sherlock, then just nods and sighs.

"I will finish it after. Unless you insist on forcing me to vomit all day. And who has been here?"

"Nobody." John shrugs.

"Repairman? Friend? Someone has been in this flat. Things are moved and I can smell them." Sherlock sniffed and frowned.

John's eyebrows rise. "Nobody has been here."

It takes a week before they are speaking to each other normally.

Going through John's computer while he saves the fallen wretches and concussed idiots; normal. Porn on John's computer; open.

Embedded, locked, folder layers and layers down. Interesting.

The hardest password ever used by flat-mate? Invitation.

Sherlock grins. John and his little secrets. Oh jackpot, it is a journal. A hidden journal.

Sherlock reads with all his focus after the first line makes him choke on his tepid tea.

_I never believed in love at first sight until I met Sherlock Holmes._

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_next chapter up soon - be warned - the journal is very dark - reviews equal faster service _


	2. Chapter 2 Prying

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ This started as a kink fill – the prompt was-**BDSM Sherlock non-con John.** Advice and the journal. This is not meant to be offensive but to explore motives. Nobody ever does a single thing without motive. When someone says they don't know why they did something, it is a lie. They may not be untruthful, may not understand why, but there is always an answer._

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Irene, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter 2 – prying**

Sherlock scanned for the good parts. Oh he would dissect later, but right this moment he was sifting treasure, rolling in his pile of gold. The world of John is here for the taking.

_He doesn't know how I feel. Everyone sees it._

_Sherlock is the most brilliant…._

_I am madly in love with him._

There were long pages of his detailed fear of letting anyone discover his secret.

He did want Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed in pure relief. He stumbled on the many complementary observations. John watched him play the violin and it was a huge turn on. His eyes were growing soft and shiny, hopeful. He laughed at how foolishly careful they had been with each other. This was so easy to fix.

Then his heart lurches.

_Of course, none of this can ever be real. He will never be able to give me what I need. So, one day I will slip away from him and fail to survive this torment I require. There will come the night when I make the ultimate error and when they call him, he will not understand. _

_He will look at me, unzip the body bag and realize he lost nothing worth having. I can see my mutilated body, bound in some terrible way and Sherlock will wrinkle his nose, narrow his eyes and pull out his little magnifying lens, rattle off with a distant glimmer of contempt that I was murdered by whatever number men. He will discover random details about their mothers false teeth and what kind of blade was used for the marmalade they ate for breakfast, and when his coat swirls away, he will go home and delete me. I deserve it._

_The chances are so high I won't survive one of these events. The chances are one of them will kill me and yet I can't stop and I know there will be a moment when I realize I will never see him again. That moment holds more fear for me than any I have ever known. If only he could know how deeply I need him. If only he could understand. If only it could be him. But, that won't happen and one day, no matter how I swear that I will never do this again, I will._

_I hate that I will do this to him. God, I would die this moment for him and feel blessed if It could just be for something clean. Let me die for him. That would be so easy. He might even think of me from time to time and that would be so much more than I deserve._

**What the hell is he talking about? This man prescribes others medication?**

_I did it again Sherlock. My back is black and blue and you noticed my limp. I took pain pills because it isn't in my head any longer. Why do I need this? How can you not see? You see everything._

_I wonder what he would do if I just told him. I dreamed last night. I dreamed it was him. _

_He slipped tranquilizer into my tea. I awoke helpless, blindfolded, no idea where I was. I begged him to stop, fought, but the knife at my throat stilled me. There is danger, but this time, the rape is slow tortured ecstasy and he revealed who he was as he moaned. I knew it was Sherlock, finally come to claim me. I whispered his name as I do with them all, but this time, he whispered back. He takes off the blindfold and says I belong to him and if I ever go out seeking the violence of strangers again, he will kill me. I came so hard when he said it, it woke me. I didn't ever want to wake from that._

_Too bad it will never be. He isn't into that sort of thing and he isn't a real sociopath, just dissociative spectrum, slightly autistic and borderline narcissistic disorder. He doesn't fall into a full Cluster B personality. The attention deficit seems to exacerbate some of his other issues and the lack of emotion is most likely learned environmental trauma rather than factual. _

_I loved him by the time I understood, he was incapable of saving me. Of course, he led me to the consulting criminal. That will be my end I suppose. He's fooled me twice now. Sherlock would hate me if he knew that he had me before strapping me to the bomb. Then, the other time, so horrible. He filmed me. I can't help it but now he has that over my head. When he calls me to die, I will probably go._

_Why stay. Why care. I will amp up my pain killers and he will film my death, for poor Sherlock to see. If I don't go, he will film Sherlock. I couldn't live, knowing he did things to Sherlock. _

_I will die before I see that happen, and maybe, if I am lucky, I can wipe him out of our lives. That is my hope anyway. Blow up Jim, and Sherlock won't have to see me at my most pathetic. Of course the thought of how I sneak it in, well it will be fast at least._

_John Watson, inventor and first victim of an arse-bomb. Surprise. Please God, don't let me go down in history for it._

_Ted Heartley was on the __11 EOD Regiment RLC and he's promised a little surprise for our friend. Next week he will have it done. I have to hide all this from Sherlock of course and God, Mycroft has so many holes in his security, I have a file created for him. Ted will send it after I am gone. _

_My buggery-boom is complete. The non-explosive proto-type is uncomfortable, but I did manage. _

_If only I could explain to him. I snuck out last night, he was snoring on the couch. The shame is too great. I made it back. I have to stop, one of the bastards knew us from the papers. Of course it was not consensual to their knowledge and I put up enough fight to be convincing, so I doubt they will show up on the telly describing my activity._

_I do wish that he cared enough. Maybe if it were him, it would fix me. My best friend, but he can't save me. If he were really who he claims to be, he would have already._

Sherlock felt sick. He could not move. He closed the file, unable to read more for now. He stared into space unable to think of any subject other than standing before Molly as she lifts the sheet on his poor John.

"He's a bit bashed up." Molly will say in fair warning.

There are no dates. Why are there no dates? He must involve Mycroft. John cannot be expected to get into random cars. How had he missed so much? John. Is he crazy? Is this some disorder? Is there a medication that could stop this? Is it physiological or psychological? What could have damaged him to this degree?

He is terrified. He is angry. John puts himself in danger seeking violence and it carries over to his sex life. He is shagging his way through the female population of London, and it isn't enough. How does he even find people who are sexually dysfunctional in a complementary inverse? Is it a suicidal cry for help? Is this why he has such an obsession to be unnoticed? Sherlock searched for answers.

His first thought was that he must address this at once. He must inform John that…what? He will be furious if he knows I have seen his darkest secrets. He might even leave. If he left, there would be no protecting him. The threat has certainly been thrown out there for far less. Then he will tell him to piss off and mind his own business, much as Sherlock had told John to do just two weeks ago.

Well that means he must find Moriarty at once. He must lay low, no that would make him suspicious. In the meantime, John is a lamb left for slaughter. He cannot grasp any plan that could end well.

John came home, cheerfully blathering on about pediatric nasal obstructions and gastric anomalies in people over a certain age. Sherlock watches him carefully. How could he lie so perfectly? He is a master at it. Sherlock had never suspected.

"How was your day?" John asks with mild pleasant interest.

Wonderful if you discount the fact a certain flat-mate has designed and built an explosive dildo to murder himself with. He said nothing and gave a shrug. "Forgive me, John."

He cocked his head and a look of concern crossed his face, "Oh dear, what is it this time? Did you kill my laptop again? Or…"He searches the room. "Nothing on fire. What have you destroyed this time?"

"My best friend?"

"Not true. Not destroyed. I admit it scares me to see you that way, but there's, nothing to forgive. You are probably right about not wanting the pills."

"Which ones?' Sherlock says and lets a flash smirk punctuate the joke.

John clears his throat, "Quite right."

He tries to broach the subject a few days later, hoping for clues.

"John, I have been thinking of a long ago case. A young woman was found and she had died during an encounter of a sexual nature. The thing is she was living two lives. Her family knew her to be very conservative, intelligent, kind even. Yet she lived a hidden life too. She sought out situations. Highly unhealthy ones."

"Drugs?"

"No. She was not a closet addict. I have never forgotten it. She met her murderer willingly. She didn't struggle. It goes against survival instincts."

"Did you catch him?"

"Yes. But he never stood trial."

"Oh. You hate it when they get away with it. You know you can't win them all."

"I'm aware."

"But, it bothers you because you—"

"It bothers me that this woman had so little value for herself, that she had been tempting fate for years. Her husband was devastated. He had no idea. She had a thousand excuses to keep him in the dark, from migraine to menstrual complaints. She arranged encounters. She craved the violence. Or I don't know, the pain."

"Well, I see the same behavior in people who know they are sick, but refuse to see a doctor. Think of Irene, she has a whole business involving that sort of thing." He shrugs. "I don't have an answer. Sometimes we just have to accept that people do stupid things."

"But why. I can't understand. Why didn't she confide in someone." Sherlock studies John.

"Sometimes, I imagine it's fear." John sits in his chair and kicks his feet up on the table.

"Afraid of people who care, but not afraid of sadistic strangers?" Sherlock is pacing.

"People who love you can hurt you deeper than strangers. Isn't that your area? Make everyone a stranger; refuse to care, so nobody can get to you?"

"She is dead. That is worse than pathetic feelings. Hurt feelings don't kill."

John laughed, but it was bitter and sarcastic. "You are an idiot."

"How do you mean? Is this in a nice way again?"

John shakes his head and props his head on his arm. He yawns. "Actually, they do. All the time and in a thousand ways. Affect health, choices, influence addictions. All the cases you find boring, the murders by someone close to them. Feelings. Feelings turn to actions. Strangers are safer sometimes. People talk to therapists instead of friends. They confess life stories on planes, they would never tell their family and friends. Because being rejected can be a bigger fear then death."

"Have you any secrets? That you are afraid to tell anyone?" Sherlock's heart is beating in the 185 range, as if he's run a distance.

John smiles, "Me? No. Of course not. Open book. I am just normal and boring John." His eyes are locked on Sherlock, innocent and mild.

"You're lying. There is nothing normal or boring about you."

"Flattery will get you tea." He stands up and heads to the kitchen. "What about you? Any deep dark secrets you want to share?" he asks from the kitchen.

Sherlock sighs, leaning against the kitchen door and watching John, he smiles and says, "More than you would ever want to know."

John's face falls for a second, and then he rolls his eyes. "Well I guess the brother to the British government would have to have a bit of baggage."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Yeah, I guess we do. Are you secretly hungry by any chance? Call for take-away?"

"We haven't been to Angelo's in weeks?"

John's eyes light up and he holds his stomach and groans. "That sounds like heaven right now."

"I like candles. Perhaps you could just let him put it on the table tonight, without comment?"

He laughs and says, "Ok. Never does any good anyway. He's quite determined to play matchmaker."

"It makes him happy. Thinking I have…someone. Doesn't matter that it isn't true," Sherlock says trying to hide how sad the truth makes him.

"The truth. There's a concept," John says pulling on his coat and chuckling.

Sherlock watches John and searches for any signs of the truth. The thought of John under him, restrained, willingly role playing, a secret between them, saving his John, keeping those other hands from touching him, giving John the last thing he could expect out of pure love, these concepts dance in the mind palace and the conscious until Sherlock can think of little else.

He takes weeks to act. He has had to take emergency measures to prevent John from seeking out any of his grand victim scenes. He refuses to even anger John for fear that him storming out for one of his lengthy walks would lead to him seeking this sort of horrible situation. Sherlock even picks up the milk on two occasions for God's sake.

He feels as if he has lost John already. John has no idea that Sherlock knows his reasons and his increasing agitation at Sherlock's attempts to be near him every second, seem to only reinforce what Sherlock has covertly read.

He does clandestinely speak to Irene about the situation. He was terrified of her response, but he turns to her and quietly conveys the jest of what he's discovered.

She doesn't laugh. In fact, Irene warns him that even if her job seems like a bit of a joke to those who do not partake of her services, that she is in fact probably saving some of her clients from even greater scandal and their families from unimaginable heartache.

Finally Sherlock offers her his most sincere apology for ever making light of her and she quite surprises him by offering to help him. She arrives in London three days later. She is taking such risk to speak to him in person that he is unable to voice his gratitude. Irene guides him to her chambers and allows him thank her properly.

Their own expression of physical joy in the other is in no way reminiscent of her expertise, but instead gentle and nearly so sweet it is sure to require dental intervention.

"I am unable to reconcile this situation to our personalities. I am finding myself somewhat bonded to you, yet it doesn't establish all the messy patterns of alliance and the insatiable need to make ridiculous declarations. I rarely allow any fondness to develop with a physical partner. Also, it is my hope that you found true enjoyment between us, yet if you did, as your physical response to me would suggest, then it becomes obvious that the sort of experience you conduct for clients is not within your own requirement to achieve sexual release and a measure of satisfaction with a more mundane boundary. You prefer women, who are in general a more love oriented group, but you offer as your specialty, the most hard hearted of recreational kinks. How, if I may genuinely inquire with all due respect, do all of these extremes exist within such a package?" His eyes are curious but there is no mockery or superiority in his expression. He is relating this Irene to his John.

Irene smiled. "Simple, you and I are true love, but a very quiet and intellectual version. Our two minds, sparing and out maneuvering each other, equals foreplay. We have so far both been unable to claim victory or despair of being defeated. I think it has allowed our admiration for the other to build an attraction aside from all others. We believe in the others singular unique aptitude to recognize like. You were crushed when you thought I brushed you off, using you only to reach your brother, yet you delighted in the fact I brought him to his knees. You waited, loving me for it. Then stepped in and took it away. You had too much pride to allow me to destroy him, though you would have allowed me to destroy you. I do care for you beyond all reason. It will probably get me killed."

"And yet I saved you."

"I didn't think you would, you know."

"I could never explain it."

"And you are confused by what you risk for me?"

"Not confused by the overwhelming need to know you exist, somewhere." Sherlock smirks at her and can't help a quick glance at her breasts. His hands follow his eyes, worshiping her skin for its beauty without the undertone of foreplay. He appreciates the way the light plays on her curves.

Her eyes soften at this adoration. He makes her feel like a painting."Ah, but how do you have that deep exquisite yearning for my life without the desire to possess my heart, though you are certain some part of it belongs to you?"

"Indeed. And in fact the reciprocation of you possessing at least the right ventricle of mine, whilst I am in no need of belabored soul searching in my surety that John is my heart. And Kate is yours. Are we fooling ourselves that this is some real manifestation of ardor or are we both simply so deeply heartless in our delusions that we have no ability to know the difference between cold calculated distrust that on occasion lands upon a spark of lust, or are we just bloody insane?"

"I adore that you have spent so much time analyzing. Perhaps I can settle the answer to some degree."

"That would be most helpful."

"Sherlock, I have no need to control anyone. I am very good at it, but you are very good at solving murders without being a murderer yourself. Don't look at me like that, self-defense doesn't count. We both deduce people. We both live to match our wits and risk our lives while unable to risk our hearts. I love you. You do love me. It is a gift that one day when we have risk too much, one of us shall mourn the passing of the other, in a way that no other person will."

"I did mourn you," he admits quietly and nearly in shame of that truth. "Yet I turned around and put you in danger. I knew what I did to you, when I opened your phone. I was filled with need to hurt you and I did, but I regretted it at once. I knew I had done myself far more damage than I wanted to admit. You were in league with the man who has sworn to take John from me. For a moment, I thought, he had succeeded by your hand instead. But I couldn't mourn you again. Not being the one responsible for you being unprotected."

"Jim, was who I needed protection from. He intends to make shoes out of me. He said he would…"

"Skin you. It was you, wasn't it?"

"The one who interrupted your swim? Yes. One of his fellows who held a red dot on your chest, well, I know –"

"What he likes? Dear God, I am glad you're fond of me. You were an idiot. I told Mycroft to pay you off at once. You should have called me. I could have acquired you a lot more, for very little effort."

Irene laughed, "I didn't even know your real name before that."

"I am quite sure I still don't know yours."

"Would you like too?"

"Not if it could harm you. No."

"Still. One of the five won't do much damage. Victoria. My father called me that. It isn't on my school records, so now you have a secret I wouldn't give to anyone else. "

"Victoria, too formal, but you are no Vicky, no. Tory then?"

She smiled, and nodded.

"Tory. It suits you. Were you a brat?"

"Sherlock, you aren't even trying."

"Ah, Obvious." He ghosted his hand leisurely up her arm. "You were perfectly outstanding and of decorous temperament, yet you were in fact the instigator of all naughty drama and decidedly immoral breaks of scandal within your family. If I were to investigate your real past, would I find some hushed rumor of a broken engagement prior to the tragic death of a minor royal debutant? "

"You have been snooping."

Sherlock bask in his element and shook his head. "No, and for you I shall endeavor not to engage in such activity. Life would be too dull if I ever solved your mysteries. I will return your faith. Here is my secret, I am lost when I look in your eyes. I can't read you. You do affect me. You stop my mind. Not even John has that power."

"That proves you love me."

"Not as spectacularly as my intent to keep you from the tanner's pot."

"Such a romantic, Mr. Holmes." She cups his face and kisses his forehead.

"So few see it," he teases back as if his emotions are neon signs.

She playfully shows him that she finds his protective side worthy of more reward. They lay together in idle bliss, each mind focused on the problem of John Watson without actually bringing the subject up right away.

"How did he get like that? What reasons do they give you for wanting to be punished?"

"I could fill books on people's damages and reasons, but they rarely matter at that point. He probably has no idea himself. I have to say, Sherlock, he didn't strike me as a potential client. He doesn't have any markers or tells. If you hadn't happened on that journal, I'd have read him as a man who would seek the mundane sexual encounter and be content. He seemed almost offended that I suggested he loved you, and that was perfectly plain. He's so full of adoration for you it's gut wrenching, but he seemed almost reticent to explore the possibility."

"I am far from able to seek his affection with any hope of it not offending him. But I do know for a fact he is able to hide all physical response to danger." Sherlock sighs and looks at the ceiling, his arms tucked under his head.

The woman contemplates for a moment then says,"He was nearly bored and annoyed when the American was holding a gun to his head next to me. I thought he was amazing at that moment. And when he looked at me naked, I simply wrote his cool demeanor off as part of his doctor training. But the day at the power plant, he was so angry for you, that was a surprise. He bumbles about and seems so forgettable, but that's just a persona that serves him isn't it?"

"I wonder sometimes if there isn't enough truth in it in some ways. He keeps it up too well. You and I can do it. We can slip into other people for short times. But we return to ourselves. I think he is the opposite. He only shows up, in certain moments. That light of his. I know it is there, but I only really am allowed to view it when he must win. How does he maintain a lie so perfectly if it isn't at least a partial truth?"

"The journal, would explain, Sherlock." Irene taps her lips with her long nails. " John has lived a strange life. I imagine he was damaged long before he became a doctor."

"Abuse then? How cliché'"

"No. He doesn't see it as abuse. He recreates it. Some seek punishment. John could pay someone like me for that. He did not flash on my radar. He would've been so useful if I could've made friends. It may have changed the outcome with your brother, if I had more than admiration to hold over you, but I promise, delivering him to Jim, would have been so easy and he would've been the bait Jim wanted to gain control of you."

"But you read that. He had had him in his grasp twice now. He could have killed him."

"Jim doesn't want to kill you Sherlock. He wants to win you. He wants to make you love him, then destroy you piece by piece. You have reservations about doing this?"

He glares at her offended. "I am not a monster."

"Neither am I," her voice is gentle and she maintains eye contact to make the point.

"Of course not."

"But, you almost never recovered from the impression that I am. Sherlock, I don't know how to put this any other way. Either you fill this need, or He will. He knows it is stupid, but it is his cocaine. If you become the supplier, you maintain control of the product quality."

Sherlock sighs, he shakes his head. "I suppose. I don't want this. I feel trapped. Will you help me?"

"Isn't that what I'm doing?" She smiles indulgently, lowering her voice an octave, "You love to control people, you're already ninety percent there. Do you trust me?

"Thrusting my cock in you didn't drain my mind to a moronic level," he purrs seductively.

"You spoke in sentence fragments for twenty minutes. It must've had some effect."

They glared at each other, but mirth soon consumed the annoyance.

Dominatrix games with complimentary lessons began. Sherlock excelled at rope tying and he did rather love the riding crop.

* * *

Thank you for the reviews - I appreciate you all and even if you are shy, or can only leave a comment in your native language, please review. I can probably read it and always love to hear from everyone. Every single one of you count and every opinion is important.


	3. Chapter 3 Burned

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ This started as a kink fill but as you see it got away from me. Sometimes we do bad things for all the right reasons and sometimes we make mistakes, because trust isn't free and love doesn't fix broken things. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter three – burned

Sherlock is terrified actually. He has reviewed John's many described desires and settles on the details he feels could serve to open this door in the most effective way without being too threatening. He will use a short term sedative, for the element of surprise. He will forgo the knife fantasy, for now, though it had been a repetitive theme in John's many described scenes. He will threaten and tantalize with the riding crop, but he will have to speak to John before he considers any actual pain inducing measures. Irene confirmed his instinct that the initial encounter should remain in Sherlock's comfort zone.

Irene assures him that this first time will have some glitches. She has prepared him for an array of John's possible needs afterwards. Sherlock has memorized the reassurances she warned may be necessary. John may be in a childlike state, needing to be rocked and soothed. He may pretend slight anger and it is Sherlock's job as the controlling scene master to alleviate his embarrassment and regret. He may act out or yell, but Sherlock is to be calm and steady to disperse any fears of abandonment or mockery.

She has stressed how important the time after the physical act is over will be. John must be treasured and made to feel important. Even if he tries to push Sherlock away at first, it is important that Sherlock express his love and adoration until John is convinced that Sherlock understands and will treat him with respect, only topping him as part of their sexual play and not in public life.

Her words sound so reasonable and certain. "This is about learning to trust, and John already has trust issues. You must, must be prepared to spend as much time as he needs. This is your golden moment. You have just given him the world and he will bond to you very deeply. Take the time to cement it and show him that this is all about his pleasure, you are actually submitting to serving his needs. It is a two way street."

Sherlock is actually looking forward to it being all done and the deep conversations and declarations of love afterward. That is what he needs the most. He needs John to openly express that he doesn't see Sherlock as damaged and only loved in pity. He needs to hear the things John had written in his journal about him. Irene says the bondage and control is just a tool to open up the locks John has on his soul.

She has promised that this will not have to take place every time. She says this fantasy will set up triggers and that the simple possibility will often be all that is needed. Irene says the actual violent nuanced play will stay with him. He may be quite clingy and willing to enjoy weeks or even months of relatively mild situations.

She has warned him that he must never demand that they no longer engage in 'scene play' once a pattern is established. John will equate this as a declaration of love and acceptance. If he withdraws it, John will see it as the ultimate rejection and escalate his behavior. She warns him not to take this step if he can't imagine it in the long term. Sherlock has found research that backs up her claims. He has prepared himself, for all the aspects of emotion he is creating. He will bond with John. He will give John what he needs. This is his commitment to forever.

The moment presents itself clearly. John is defensive, frustrating, and in a terrible mood. Sherlock is patient with him, offers to make him tea. John accepts. He smiles at Sherlock, eyes pleased that Sherlock is trying so hard to make him feel better. Sherlock engages in small talk, which honestly should have set John's alarm bells off.

His eyes droop. Sherlock watches him as he goes into detail on his perfume research and how he is designing a fragrance just for John.

Sherlock lets out his breath slowly and softly says, "John, are you sleeping?"

There is no answer.

Sherlock carries John up the stairs and disrobes him with loving care. He binds John's legs wide, face down to the bed-frame and crosses his arms behind him before securing them. He places ocular pads on his eyes then covers them with black satin. He is not pleased about the gag, but the leather pulls Johns mouth in such a way that seems to not impede breathing, so he feels secure with Irene's recommendations. All bindings go through meticulous double checks to make certain John is secure but that all appendages have adequate circulation. Finding his fingers warm, he slowly lets himself admire John's body.

The picture before him is unexpectedly beautiful. His John, helpless and prepared for pleasure is absolutely perfect. Of course he will do this, for him. He realizes his fear has been silly. John will be able to pretend that he doesn't want Sherlock to take him, but he will have no choice. Sherlock discovers he is looking forward to this far more than he could have guessed. His confidence is building and he intends to thank Irene with some cost-a-bomb gift that Mycroft will have every right to make a face over.

He has found the key to making John happy and there is certainly no down side that Sherlock will enjoy it as well. He has John propped on pillows in such a way that he can reach under him and offer attention to John while he is inside him.

John begins to stir. He struggles, and then lies quietly cataloging his restraint as best he can. Sherlock reaches out and touches him. John grumbles most gruffly.

Sherlock lightly clips him with the riding crop and John gives no sound but pulls heroically on the bindings.

"I know your secrets John. I know them all. I know what you want, what makes you tick. You belong to me now. I am here and my answer is yes. If you are submissive, I will be gentle. If you fight me, I will be as rough as you desire."

John turns his head toward the sound of Sherlock's voice. He reasonably babbles undecipherable nonsense. Sherlock keeps touching him as John's protests gain a pleading tone. He uses his fingers and the riding crop to explore John, establishing his right to be allowed to touch John in an intimate way. He takes his time, letting Johns mind fill with all the fears about what could be about to happen. John lurches and pulls away from contact, but the gag makes it impossible to be understood. Sherlock wants to hear what he is saying, and a moment of doubt trickles his resolve, but he takes Johns cock in his hand and feels it stir.

"I am going to fuck you John. I am going to fuck you whether you like it or not, but we both know you're going to like it. You can't get away. Nothing you can do about it. Scream for me all you want. I am going to keep fucking you until you come. However long it takes. I want to save you. I want to make you belong to me."

John fights and shakes his head making noises of pleading, but he is suddenly hard in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock spreads lube on John and slowly presses his fingers into his flat mate. John's struggles make him grip Sherlock's fingers and Sherlock closes his eyes feeling the soft heat of him.

"Oh John, you are so tight. You have to relax or this is going to hurt terribly." Sherlock reaches under John and massages his heavy erection as he increases his rhythm. John spasms and his breath grows harder as small sobs escape. John is covered in a fine sheen of sweat and his heart rate climbs into the levels of arousal and danger. Sherlock lines himself up and presses himself into John. John bucks and tries harder to escape. Sherlock wraps his arms around him and secures him in place.

Slowly, as his rhythm builds and he's getting lost in the feeling of John, John finally stills. He is so quiet, Sherlock reaches around to see if he's come already, but he is hard. Sherlock begins to stoke John, his rhythm and thrusting synchronizing. John lurches and protests but his struggles have settled to a quiet mewling. As Sherlock grips him, John lets out a little grunt of helpless enjoyment and his muscles tense but he no longer fights at all. "I know what you need John. It's ok. I love you."

Sherlock feels John spasm and he thrusts into Sherlock's hand as he moans beneath him in a different way. John tenses as he comes then his body shudders in pleasure. The spasms are too much for Sherlock, he has witnessed John come and he follows with a long moan of adoration and he collapses on top of him, unable to do more. John doesn't protest he just lays there as Sherlock whispers how beautiful he is.

He removes the gag first and then the blindfold.

John is shivering beneath him. "Why?" He manages to ask.

Sherlock kisses his shoulder. "Because, I love you."

"You bastard."

"I know. But you will forgive me and now you can love me as I love you. Now we can have this all the time. I know and I accept."

"You raped me. Sherlock you were my best friend. How could you." John turns his face away and he is crying.

Sherlock swallows, "Yes. For you. Because you are…"

"Untie me God-damned you."

Sherlock sits up. "Of course. Of course I will. You must be uncomfortable. I won't leave you. You are my heart."

John waits for him to finish. He lays there for a moment trembling and then uses the sheet to wipe himself up. His knees suddenly come up and he kicks Sherlock to the floor. He follows and banging Sherlock's head on the floor and choking him, screams. "I trusted you. I loved you. Anyone in the world. Anything. But You? I hate you."

_Oh shit_. "John? I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?"

This seems to wake John up with such an incredulous look of anger he stands and begins kicking Sherlock and throwing things. "Get out. Get out of my sight. Get out. Oh God, get out."

Sherlock stands and John throws anything he can reach at Sherlock.

"But, John..This…"Sherlock's eyes are wide with fear.

"Get away. Get away before I…"John reaches in his drawer and his Browning L9A1 is in his hand. He rams the clip in, flicks the safety off and points it at Sherlock with cool smooth motions of long practice. His breath stops racing and that clear deadly half-smile of calm replaced his wounded terror. "You know who I am. Now get out of my sight you heartless freak."

Sherlock's eyes focus on the gun for a moment. John is exactly too far away to be disarmed and Sherlock holds his arms partially bent and hands up slightly, eyes locked on John's. He takes a step backward, and John takes one forward.

"My God, you wouldn't actually…"but Sherlock doesn't finish, it is plain in his eyes that he not only will, but that the action would be automatic.

Sherlock takes more backward steps and John follows, maintaining his range and advancing pace for pace. As soon as Sherlock steps into the hall, the door slams and the lock engages.

"John? John Please? Let me explain." Sherlock stands there saying his name, trying to calm him down.

Without warning, a bullet hole appears, near his hand. Sherlock just looks at it. He takes a step backward, and realizes this can't be how it is supposed to be. He must call Irene. He doesn't know what is wrong, but John is too angry. "John, I'm sorry. John just –"

The breath is sucked out of him_. John has just shot him. No._ He looks at the blood spilling. _No. How terrible. _Another hole appears in the door, and Sherlock just looks at it for a moment, wheezing and confused. Sherlock needs to go down stairs. He will need the first aid kit. He will just go retrieve it so John can fix him and explain why he shot him.

He stagers down the stairs. He feels so strange. He goes to his room and puts on pants and his trousers, but he can't button them because his left arm is useless. He looks down again and wishes that he hadn't. This is a rather serious amount of blood for such a small hole. Each time he exhales his chest sprays slightly, like the blow hole of a whale, but red.

He makes it part way back through the kitchen, leaning heavily on the table when his legs fail to remain sturdy and he sees stars floating before realizing he is on the kitchen floor covered in the debris of his many experiments, now obviously ruined. John is looking down at him, eyes wide but still filled with disgusted hatred.

"Ambulance is on the way. I told Lestrade I shot you. Told him why too in case that brother of yours makes me vanish. Try not to die."

That scares him. He doesn't want to leave with John hating him. "Why are you so mad?" he feels the blood gurgling in his throat, gagging him. It hurts to cough, but it is that or drowning. His breathing sounds funny, sucking chest wound. Lung hit, John is using tape on him. It must be near his heart.

"You drugged me and raped me. Stupid doesn't play very well. I won't let you bleed out. I didn't mean to shoot you. I am sorry, but it doesn't mean I care." he says as he puts the last of the tape on Sherlock's chest. He is rolling him now and blood gushes out from one side of the plastic wrap on his chest.

"Please. I read the journal, on your computer. I only wanted you to love me, John. I'll never understand. I only did what-"Sherlock is struggling to speak. Each time he breaths in the plastic sucks tight to his chest, but each exhale brings a gush of blood. The pain has finally caught up too and Sherlock feels the desire to shriek, but he isn't sure he can. He shivers trying to keep from screaming, or maybe it's because the floor is as cold as John's eyes.

"No. You probably won't. I trusted you. I trusted …you. Now shut up. Hold this tight. You hit you head too. They're here."

John's feet left the kitchen, Sherlock closed his eyes and let the bloody cloth fall to the floor as he turned on his side and curled. His fingers are soaked in blood and he reaches out and makes the letter and draws a heart on the cupboard. He closes his eyes, and wishes he could text the woman, let her know she won. This isn't how it was supposed to be.

There is jostling, and strangers in the house. They seem to be talking to him. He can't quite put the voices into meaning. He hurts as they roll him.

Lestrade's face. He moves his lips. Sherlock wants to tell him he isn't strung out. It feels like years ago when he used to come rescue him. Someone is holding something in his mouth. He can't talk with it there. Funny medical taste and wind blows so hard it makes it his lungs feel rigid. Lestrade is holding his hand squeezing so firmly.

_Where's John._ He tries to call. He sees John, standing in the livingroom, arms crossed protectively, head down, eyes up. He's wearing trousers and one of his grey and blue checked shirts. Sherlock reaches out to him, eyes pleading. John glances at him, without turning his head, eyes hard, and then his attention flicks away. He focuses on two men standing with him as if Sherlock doesn't exist.

Lestrade says something to John, because he glances Sherlock's way again then shakes his head.

_I'm scared John. Please? _Sherlock reaches toward him, but John refuses to move.

_Oh. Oh, yes. Oh my John. Oh God. I don't exist. I don't want to. No more thinking. No more tea. No more John. Let me die. Please, God, Let me die._

He goes limp and closes his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson crying "Oh Sherlock…."

_Don't worry Mrs. Hudson._

_The stars are hiding. The flashing lights. A crime scene. Oh, how he loves a good crime scene._

The ambulance attendant tells him they need to tube him. He rode the tube with a bloody shirt. The harpoon must have malfunctioned. They remove the thing on his face. He grabs the man and looks in his eyes. "Tell John, I love him. And don't let my brother…"

"Ok. Sir. Need you to be calm. You are going to be fine. We are going to help you. Need you to let go and relax. Going to help you out with that…"

_Don't bother. He didn't even say Goodbye. Just…polite…to at least say, Goodbye. Even to a heartless freak._ The pain is red hot, but it grows farther away. He moves away from the pain, looks down at the bloody shirtless man in the bed. He feels free as he realizes, the transport was never necessary.

_His voice cries in the city, it is his wolf cry from when he played in the woods with Mycroft. Maybe it's his violin. Sherlock knows the world can hear his long impossible wail of grief. _

Flying. Oh John, flying is the most simple thing. We should have known all along that we can fly.

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Yes, sad chapter, but don't give up. Lots of chapters to go. Please review.


	4. Chapter 4 Sacrifice

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ This time damnation may be of the self. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 4 – Sacrifice

The many moments of confused shadows are warped and glitch in time. Mycroft looks down at him, calmly telling him he's going to be fine. He hears laughter as someone talks on the phone. He stares at the lights and hears someone say "This will help with the pain."

He wakes knowing he's about to sneeze and when it happens he moans in fear that the pain is going to suck his eyeballs back into his chest. He hears someone speak, but it doesn't matter. It isn't John.

He knows John shot him. He tries to roll onto his side, to curl up against the world and pretend he is on his couch, and Baker Street is waiting for him with a cup of tea and smiling blue eyes.

"Sherlock, Detective Inspector is here to take your statement; I need you to open your eyes." Mycroft's voice is accompanied by the movement of the bed, raising him into a sitting position.

"Nothing to say," he grunts.

"John has been arrested. We need to hear your version of what occurred. Sherlock, is what he says true?"

"Let him go. It was an accident. "

"Sherlock, he has evidence that you forced him to…"

"I did. Let him go. Let me die and get out," Sherlock growls.

Greg stands and leans over Sherlock. "Sherlock. Can you hear me? I would never have believed it. Not you two. How did this happen?"

"His computer. His journal is on it. Password is Northumberland. Read it. I made a mistake. I never meant to hurt him." Sherlock says, eyes cast downward and his voice just above a whisper.

"Ok. He's filing charges."

"Well, I am not. Go please. Unless you plan to remove me from this bed."

"No. You are to be remanded to custody once released."

"Hopefully I will relapse and save you the trouble."

Mycroft watched the interview tapes. There were no files to explain Sherlock's actions on John's computer. John is adamant that he kept no secret journal. Had no idea what Sherlock meant. John had not intended to shoot Sherlock. He pulled the gun and fired three times, simply to frighten him away. He had no idea Sherlock was still standing there. He was certain he had taken cover after the first high shot. He dressed and packed an overnight bag and was still in the process of that when he'd heard the terrible crash in the kitchen. He went to investigate and found his attacker with a critical thoracic wound and called the authorities at once while performing what preventive triage he could. He admitted Sherlock seemed confused and rambled about having invaded his private files. John has no idea what he could have found that would lead to this attack.

John remains calm during the interview. His blood proves he was drugged. The evidence supports there has been activity of a sexual nature. The officer conducted the interview with a cool but disbelieving air, demanding to know if John had enjoyed the experience.

Face red and humiliated, John fights to keep his tone even. Through clenched teeth he says, "I ejaculated. Yes. Physical response does not equal consent. I begged him to stop. I shook my head no. I blubbered like a god dammed baby, if you want to know. He was my best friend. I trusted him. Everyone tried to…tell me. But I … dear God, I don't know why. Why? How could he hate me that much? I was afraid and I meant to frighten him away, so he would know not to try to stop me from leaving. I was a wreck. I had no idea what to do."

"But you didn't call the police at that time."

"No. I just wanted to get out."

"But you stopped and took the time to pack. You could have left at once, or rang up the Yard from the safety of your room. You have friends at the Yard."

"So does he. I could have left him to bleed out on the floor too. I could have done a lot of things, but I did the best I could."

"Have you and Mr. Holmes engaged in sexual relations before this time?'

"No. Never. Not at all. We are not a couple."

"That is odd, because several of my fellow officers were certain that you are indeed a couple and in fact, even your landlady expressed that the two of you were deeply in love."

"People gossiping doesn't make it fact. I have never lead anyone to believe we were more than flat-mates, friends and colleagues. Not Gay. Have a girlfriend. Well I don't now probably."

"How often did you and Mr. Holmes frequent a club called 'Splosh' in Soho together?"

"We didn't. I mean I followed him once. We are not like that. OK? Not a couple. Not that kind of partners."

"The ambulance attendant went on record that his patient, though in great pain and on the verge of death, made certain declarations toward you of a romantic nature." The man reaches into the file and places a photograph before John. "This was discovered on the scene. What do you make of it?"

"I don't know."

"You have a great deal of recent experience in crime scene interpretation. How often do you run across the victim of a gunshot wound writing the name of his murderer in his own blood, with a little heart drawn after it? Other than the trauma of your alleged rape, you in fact have no injury. The presence of a lubricating substance denotes that your attacker was not intending violence. Tell me what do you make of these facts?"

"I don't make anything of them. I don't know why he did it. I don't know why he wrote that. I don't know. I am the victim here. I am not him, and I don't deduce anything. I establish cause of death and ask stupid questions, much like you are doing now. That is where my investigative skills terminate. You are asking me to fill in the psychological holes of the perpetrator. My job here is to be the victim and tell you what happened. Not to do your fucking job and figure out why. I told you why I shot the gun. I have a permit. I did not intend to shoot him. It was an accident. "

"No need to be defensive, Mr. Watson."

"Not defensive. And murderer. You called me a murderer. So he's dead then? You're telling me he's…" John's face crumbles and he closes his eyes, trembling.

"I have no information at this time. So it appears you cared for him? Did you? Care for Mr. Holmes?"

John stands and the thought he killed Sherlock, doubles him over. His breath is coming fast and he's sweating.

"You will sit back down Mr. Watson. NOW!" the officer says.

"Can't.. going to be…" John moans and his hand flies to his mouth, he tries to dash toward the waste bin, but the contents of his stomach had no intention of submitting. He stands there helplessly wrenching and coughing for some time. "sick," he croaks. "sorry. So, sorry."

John sits back down quietly. His face is blank and he just looks down at his hands, unresponsive for the next few hours. They try several other officers, from sweet kind personalities to the drill sergeant giving orders, to a reasonable buddy. All fail to extract any further interview response from John Watson. He doesn't meet anyone's eyes, no matter how they threaten or cajole him.

Mycroft sighs in disgust, "Good God the man is in shock. They as much as said he killed Sherlock. Why doesn't he have a barrister present?"

John steps into the holding cell. He sits like a statue for twelve hours. He is taunted when he doesn't respond to his fellow cell mates. The games ramp up like he is a palace guard. John doesn't move or speak. However when one of his tormentors shoves him, John responds with the reflexes of a coiled snake. The young man, who outweighs the doctor by five stone, is on the floor crying about his dislocated shoulder and missing front tooth, before the grins are even gone from his annoying audience. "Don't ever touch me again, you bastard," John screams.

John is put in solitary confinement.

It is the morning after his 24 hour hold before Lestrade manages to get in the room. He sits down next to him and waits to speak. "What can I do for you?" he finally asks John softly.

John raises his chin. "Kill me for escaping. Bury me next to the bloody arse."

"Not Funny."

"Not joking. Don't think it will matter much Greg. Mycroft will be here soon. It's better for me that way. I can't do it. I can't survive this. I can't believe he's dead."

"What do you mean? He's not dead. I mean it's bad, but he's still… who told you he was dead?"

"Isn't that required for murder charges?"

"You haven't been charged. Mycroft got you a posh bas. Sherlock refused to press charges. I just came from his hospital room. He said it was accidental. You'd be out of here now 'cept for the manky plonker you jumped. John, Sherlock is hanging on. I swear."

John looks up. His eyes spill over and he manages to mumble something along the line of thanks.

Lestrade touches his shoulder, he pauses as John flinches, but he rests his hand on John. "He may be a prat, but he's still Sherlock. I don't mean to sound like I am on his side here, but…I just can't see this being his big life plan. Testing him for drugs. Get him a CT scan as well. There has to be…something we don't get. Has to be something, that made him think…wrong. Genius turned cabbage. Who knows what he's about? It will get sorted. "

"I can't even explain how bad this hurts." John says.

"You'll be out in just a bit. Stay round with me until you see some light."

John looks up at Greg and doesn't even argue. He nods and whispers, "Ta."

* * *

I really need some reviews.


	5. Chapter 5 Terms

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ Stubborn people - Mycroft in the middle. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 5 - Terms

John is released pending further investigation. He stays with Greg. John doesn't leave the flat at all. It is a sunny afternoon. John has been looking out the window for hours. The sun feels ominous. Everything feels ominous. Greg has kept him updated on Sherlock. John doesn't ask, pretends not to care. He won't speak the name or discuss what happened, but each day, Greg comes home, they eat dinner, mostly in silence. Greg always waits to mention Sherlock. He hopes John will ask if he pretends to have forgotten. John stares at his picked over plate, waiting.

"He is up and around. They say he will be released. Mycroft has agreed to guarantee his appearance before the magistrate. They were cooperative because his condition would be considered high risk if he were housed in our custody. Infection and such. He will require care, but of course he's his brother's problem now. Have you given any thought to what you'll set on next? "

John just shakes his head no.

"Been thinking on it a bit. Could go with…to gather your rubbish. Dump it here til you're up to sorting?"

Several days later, they invade Baker Street. The smell nearly knocks them down. John gathers quickly, while Lestrade is on bio hazard detail. They leave windows open. John refuses to look at the bloody handprints all down the hall. He ducks under the police tape in his room.

More days wash together. John has started cooking, though he hardly touches the food. Lestrade tells him about his day. He's a far better flat-mate than Sherlock ever was. John makes a few calls. The police still have his gun, so he acquires another. Lestrade need not know, but John sleeps with it at night. You never know people. Even cops and Consulting Detectives can pop round the twist on their flat-mates.

It was a late night for the Detective Inspector. He comes home tired. John had kept dinner warm. The food is pretty dry, but it doesn't seem to bother Greg. He blathers on about something and John grunts and nods appropriately.

Greg waits for John to respond. He knows suddenly that John wasn't listening to a word. He picks up their plates and deposits the food in the dogs bowl and the dishes in the sink. John notices his tension and wonders if he's about to ask him to leave. Greg leans on the counter looking out the window. "I think you and he should have a sit down, John. Both of you acting like the other died. Talking to either of you has become a waste of bloody air. You know you are welcome to stay. We are friends and I know you are ripped to bits, but I never seen him like this. I know you're angry. Got every right. But he's my friend too and not saying you made a mistake, but Jesus bloody hell, if it was him sitting here, I'd say the same on your behalf."

"No. Sod it and sod him. I'm done. I'm just…done."

"Ok. You really surprise me though. I mean you being a brave soldier and all. We seen it all didn't we, and we got back. Letting this break you? You never blinked the night you shot the cabbie. Oh Please, don't even bother. Not a blimey wally here. Seems like you'd least hear a man out if you done killed for him. He put your life ahead of his a time or two if I recall. You faced worse really, in your life I mean, then go round the twist about a conversation. Just wants to say sorry, you know. Got remorse at least, don't he? Just hear him. I'd be right there. It's pathetic, way he is now."

John stands and clears his throat. They have had this exchange several times now. "I will sign whatever papers you want. Drop the charges. Whatever it was, it's really no matter. He and I know. I don't want to hear his brilliant take on why. I don't care what he does. I don't want him dead or anything, but I don't need to hear it. You just tell him to leave me alone. I took my blog down. All I ask is a clean break. If I see him, I will get an order. If that doesn't work. If he follows me or texts me, or tries to contact me in any way…"John rolls his head. " I have more ways of payback then he has shirts. You tell him. And just so you both know, I have another gun. Lots of ammunition. I won't kill him. But he won't ever walk again either. And it isn't a bluff. You tell him that. "

"No. You don't say that to me. I am still a cop you know? You can't tell me that and expect me to play message boy. Jesus if Mycroft heard this…" Greg shakes his head and drops his voice. "You got any idea who he is? He may look like the stable one, but he's a dab hand in a lot of scrotty little houses. You have no idea, Sherlock is a bit of a tosser, but his brother, well Voldemort was a Johnny-no-stars compared to the real big brother."

"Not afraid of Mycroft."

"Yeah? Then do me a lemon and keep it to yourself, cause I got enough unsolved cases eating holes in my stomach."

"I could prescribe you something. My license is reinstated." John deadpans.

"Perfect. A loony with credentials." Greg rolls his eyes, "Just think it over at least. You think you got this, mate. But I warn you, be sure. Hard to take back funerals and I seen a lot less, send him looking."

John had spent the last few days considering Lestrade's words. It didn't surprise him to see Mycroft exit the car, adjust his crisp suit jacket, tuck his umbrella in the crook of his arm, and stroll up to the door. John sighed and opened it before he rang.

"Mycroft. What a pleasure," he said without a drip of sarcasm. There is a perilous watchful edge to John's voice, but no sarcasm.

Mycroft looked affronted but quickly smiled. "Dr. Watson, my apologies for visiting without invitation, however…"

"No need to apologize for habitual behavior. All your minions have the day off? Thought hell was open twenty-four seven these days. What is it, souls not selling in the downturn, or religion chewing up your product? Fresh out of matches or I'd be happy to make a donation."

Mycroft smiles at John, who has crossed his arms but moved to the side and motions him in. "Oh I thought we were playing gentlemen for a moment. No, I own the religions, except one or two. They went union on me. Demanding days off. No end to the greed of minions these days. And how are the Sainthood and Martyr games treating you? Happy to hear you are back in good standing, Doctor Watson?"

"I would think we were beyond the whole formal bit. You bailed me out of jail knowing I'm one-hundred percent guilty for almost killing your brother. Been expecting you. I am a little surprised you bothered to come personally. Flattered even. Would you like tea first or is the cleanup crew already in route?" John called over his shoulder, offering him a kitchen chair.

"Tea would be lovely. Are you expecting someone?" Mycroft asks carefully.

"No. You're all clear. Bullet or poison?" John asks.

"Is that a new slang? I fear I am rarely up to speed on the London vogue phraseology." Mycroft sits resting his briefcase close to his leg and his umbrella over the back of the chair. "I take sugar, whichever of those two represent it."

John cocks his head. "No, I was asking if you planned to shoot me or poison me. Easier to have me out of jail. Just curious. I don't have any preference. Less messy would appeal to Greg, of course. Here you are, I hope orange pekoe is acceptable."

Mycroft squints his eyes, "I beg your pardon? Why on earth would I want to do either?"

John shrugs, "Because you …can?"

"Oh dear. I really have this occur so rarely." Mycroft looks down at his tea uncomfortably.

"What? Tea before blood spatter? Just make sure it's all clean before—"

"No. I find it quite abysmal that I allowed you to hurt my feelings." Mycroft says chewing his lip.

John pauses with his cup an inch from his lips. "You are aware it has long passed into legend that the Holmes family surgically removes that inconvenient bundle of chemicals before puberty."

Mycroft sighs, "It appears the procedure has proven of only limited success. I must venture to ask, if this is your abductive reasoning, if you have taken any precautions toward its prevention?"

John reaches without hesitation to the small of his waist and sets a Browning firmly on the table, taking care that the muzzle faces away from his guest. "Wasn't expecting personal service. Figured you'd just text a minion and watch the reruns."

"My faith in friendship restored. How delightful. I am not here to harm you. The fact I have to say that, well. Of no matter. I'd hardly see to your medical license if I intended you not to have further need to possess one." Mycroft purses his lips and bends down to get his briefcase. He balances it on his knees popping the locks. "I came to return your laptop and discuss some papers, sent to me, anonymously. I was hoping we could forge ahead and embark on a meaningful discourse that may prove recent events to have some sinister implications."

"More sinister than what, exactly? More sinister than your brother deciding one day to …to drug his best friend and rape him for, until …Until I couldn't even scream. Any more. Something in your briefcase more sinister than that? Maybe, I don't want to see it." John sets his mug down. He stands up, wanting to get a handle on his outburst, before it went supermassive and collapsed inward like a black hole version of himself. "To bad you're not here to shoot me."

"Let me ask you. Before the event, what would you have done to save my brother's life? It is a given you would kill for him. You would have died for him too. You have proven these things, have you not?"

"Before? Yes."

"Good. What would he have done to save your life?"

"Let's see, nothing? Oh wait, he would lie. Yes."

"John." Mycroft scolded.

John sighed, "I don't know. Mycroft. What do you want me to say? It doesn't matter. None of it. Not one fucking minute of it mattered. To him. "

"Wrong. Please, just for a moment. What would you have done, if you found out that he was doing something so dangerous that it would kill him at some point?"

"Oh besides cocaine, chasing bad things, daring people to kill him to prove he's clever, refusing to eat or sleep because he's special, pissing people off just for—"  
"Yes. Let's say, you discovers something so dark and broken that it was unmentionable. You had the power to save him. It was the only thing that would save him. Would you have tried?"

John thought, "Depends, who gets hurt?"

"Nobody. You harm nobody. You save the one you love." Mycroft raised his hand and dismissed John's instant habitual denial. "Well, that doesn't matter, really, you see, we are not talking about your heart. We are talking about his. Returned or not, he is in love with you. Have you ever really been in love doctor?"

John shrugs, "I have thought so, once or twice. Wasn't real, just too young. Stupid."

"Ever had a broken heart?"

"I suppose so. Everyone has, haven't they?" he snickers, "Maybe not you. But boring people, like me. It happens."

"It is your position that you kept no secret journal. Correct?"

"Yes. I mean No, I had case files, the blog. Not much of a journal person. I really have no idea what he meant by that."

"I believe you. We didn't find one."

"Ok. There it is then. No journal."

"What we did find was a key-logger Trojan. Here are the code sections, if you have interest." Mycroft lays a file out on the table.

"I don't even know what this means." John looked at a few pages and politely set them back on the table.

"What it means is someone had access to your computer, controlled it, if you will, and they could in fact watch what you were doing. They could see precisely what you looked at. All emails, pictures, personal data were open for the taking. Not only that but they could redirect your computer to obey them. This has been in place for more than four months. Now the matter of the missing journal."

"Wait. How did this happen?"

"They only had to have face to face access to your computer for five minutes. It is a simple procedure. Illegal, but simple. "

"But we are careful, we have software."

"Oh, John, you went to a war zone and returned. I live in one. Technology has become our master rather than our servant. We do not have the time to debate all the evils of the world. The point being, the computer was indeed compromised. Now the actual journal is unrecoverable. However there is an embedded use log. It does prove something was there that is no more. I have two screen shots. One is the file, showing it did exist. The next is a page that looks very much like a journal. I can prove to you that Sherlock was sitting in your flat, reading something at times that coincide with these two screens. And the something was on your computer. There was a file with the passcode Northumberland."

"I see. But we don't know what it was? Could have been anything. It is just his word. He could have put it there."

"Yes he could have, but why erase it. Leave it there as proof of his claim. That what he discovered lead him to take the unfortunate actions that have created such havoc. "

John processes all that is said. "Ok, but other than something was there and now it isn't. Doesn't change much. Not really. Not for me."

"I do understand your position. I felt we were at something of an impasse, as well. But it seems my brother consulted an expert. I had hoped to spare you. Even if your claim is true, and this is not an accusation of any sort, reading this will be disturbing. It evidently disturbed him for some time. His first reaction was to pretend not to know, but the issue of your safety finally removed the barriers of caution. Please, she would not have broken her cover if this were not important. She's not dead, again. It doesn't prove his word, mind you, but well…have a look."

Mycroft pushed the papers toward John. His eyes widened as he reads. "I didn't write this."

It was almost an hour before John spoke again. Mycroft had observed the doctors reaction. He wavered between frustration, anger, embarrassment, disgust and horror.

"How? How could he believe that? He knows me. How?"

"Ahh, but the first line. John, think. It hooked him. He read that the object of his desire returned his affection. He had no reason to question that you had in fact written this. You have to admit, it was written by someone familiar with your phrasing, familiar with the events of your life. Someone used details, you thought private. If I had not been here observing you, I would have wondered if it were the denial of the guilty heart. But if you did write it, there would have been no shooting. This was planted in hope to separate the two of you, or be found after your disappearance. It was set up to hurt him, or to be discovered to keep the authorities from making much of a case if you vanished and it has worked spectacularly, I dare say. The writer worded it so carefully, John."

"He should have talked to me. And what if I had found it. If he'd just showed it to me then, it would have never been any kind of issue."

"Yes. That would have been most entertaining. You denying it. He making a fool of himself trying to reassure you. Imagine that conversation, if you will? If you had found it, it would have vanished, just as it did."

"Ok. Stupid. Ok. I do see. Really I do. My mind can work through it. Not so sure it matters. I will speak with him someday. If that's what you want, I will. Not anytime soon, but eventually. But, it doesn't really change what happened to me. It explains, yes. Thank you. Thank you for that. Honestly. From my heart, Mycroft. But, you do understand, don't you? It still happened, to me."

"I do. He said you would say that. I know it in no way changes the event. But still, having something with which to measure his intention. At least it is something. At least you can begin to heal."

"I think you have too high of expectations."

"Perhaps. But a few nights ago, you hated him enough to shoot him repeatedly if he came close enough to try to explain. The fact you will now speak to him without the deadly projectiles, is a vast improvement. I hope it will give him something to look forward to."

There is a war going on in silence. John refuses. Mycroft insists. John pleads it is too much to ask. Mycroft accepts and looks down then looks back with pleading grief stricken fear. John can't take that look on Mycroft's face. John rolls his eyes and sighs. "Ok. How bad is he? Really."

Mycroft tucks all his papers away and snaps his briefcase closed. He sets it on the floor and reaches out and lifts John's gun from the table, handing it to him butt first. "I am here. What does that suggest?"

"So, we should go right now then?"

Mycroft's head tilts and he stands. His chin drops and an eyebrow rises in the classic physical Holmes display for the word, 'obviously.'


	6. Chapter 6 Injustice

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ That first meeting. John has put aside all his fear to speak to Sherlock. Will it be all smooth sailing and rainbows? Or red skys? _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 6 – Injustice

John was not prepared. He had seen many things and he was pretty well versed with Sherlock's style. The world's only Consulting Depressive sat directly in front of an enormous television watching some sort of large headed cartoons that had super powers denoted by colour. The volume was so loud it made John squint.

Sherlock holds the remains of a cigarette, one of about a thousand crushed butts jumbled precariously in various ashtrays and a few tea cups, hanging forgotten and burned out, between his fingers. His face is void of all muscle movement. John's first reaction is to check for a pulse, but he refrains from the impulse.

"Sherlock?" John moves around slowly. The blue-grey eyes stay fixed to the screen not acknowledging John . "What have you given him?"

"Only what is prescribed. He has no access to any other substances, it is a secure facility," Mycroft says annoyed and searching for the remote to mute the volume.

"By all means, draw out my torture," Sherlock says in a surly snarl, the baritone cutting through the overly loud sounds of animated battle. He reanimates like a printer popping online. "John. Farewell to the condemned is it? Thought you were above the roasting of the damned. Go on then. I wouldn't miss this for the world." He throws the butt on the floor and steeples his fingers. All movement again ceases.

Sherlock's eyes have not left the screen. John takes the remote and clicks several buttons until the telly blips dark. The sunken eyes, blink but stay fixed, as vacant as the screen.

John squats and studies Sherlock carefully. He holds this position for over twenty minutes, neither speaking. Finally, John stands. "Good chat. Have to do it again sometime." he says quietly. He turns and walks to the door.

"We won't, in fact. Do it again," Sherlock says from far away. "Therefore, my very sincere apologies."

John stands there, waiting for him to say more. "Am I not welcome, then?"

"You won't return. And I won't be here if you do. I will fix it, I assure you."

"Really? Ok then. How would that come about? Fixing it?" John waits, but when Sherlock doesn't respond, he sighs. "Sitting on your arse, pouting may get in your way, but who am I to know? You're the great Sherlock Holmes. Must be a burden to live this great big life of yours, knowing it all."

"Yes. Precisely."

Mycroft pipes in finally, "He came here. It wasn't easy. I hope you are satisfied with all you accomplished for my effort."

"There is nothing left to accomplish." Sherlock responds making a face in a taunting reflection of a disgruntled teen.

Somehow, this statement makes John mad. "Thank you. Thank you for saying that. Otherwise this whole thing might be utterly confusing, for poor John. Too stupid to know when to call it a day, John. Give him one more chance and watch him have a piss at me, John. You always told me I am an idiot. Guess we proved it today. Sure Mycroft, I will swallow my terror and raging embarrassment to hear him out. Sure, I haven't been to work since this happened, and I don't know how to breathe anymore. I sleep with an illegal gun at a cop's house because I can't trust even him and sleep about ten minutes at a time, for fear I will wake up blind and screaming."

Sherlock closes his eyes, but remains perfectly still.

John shakes his head and then continues, holding back tears. " I shouldn't be here trying to comfort you. You should be the one trying here. One sentence. And we wouldn't be here. One second of thinking you might be wrong would have prevented all of this. What did I ever. Ever do. To make you think that about me? I wouldn't have hurt you for my life, Sherlock. But I was thinking maybe I could use a word here, or be honored with a fucking facial twitch that says you think I am worth bothering about. But no. No. You still said a lot even though you wouldn't even look at me. I guess it disgusts you, being in the same room with me. Did it always? So glad you told me." John kicked the door open.

He didn't wait for Mycroft or need to be shown the way. His fist magically found bits of wall space that needed John Watson size spatial relief. There were inventive curse words and other people bustling about, poignantly avoiding the crazy doctor. John stormed the gates, so to speak, in his definitive exit. He stood in the ominous sun and it burned his eyes so terribly they watered.

He picked up a park bench and sent it flying through a car window. He kicked an innocent statue and when it wobbled a bit, he wrestled it to the ground. Mycroft followed him, seeming unconcerned with John's display. The path of destruction finally ended at a remarkably heavy fountain. The fountain got the better of John and he conceded his defeat with a string of shudders and perfectly ghastly sounds. Mycroft stood nearby, watching.

"I'll pay for the damage," John says after a few minutes. "I didn't mean for you to see that. I'm so sorry."

Mycroft comes and gingerly perches on the edge of the fountain, far enough from a soaking wet former fusilier that his Gieves and Hawks suit was not assaulted with damp splotches. "I have wanted to revamp the garden for years. The opportunity has now presented itself. Do not give it another thought. I am rather pleased your admiration for my fountain was of less permanent obliteration. Shall we have tea? Chef has prepared a feast. Sherlock will only throw his serving. The poor man insists I eat at least twice as much as I should to sooth his offence at my brother's upsetting critique."

John looked at his watch. "I could bash your plates and scatter your napkins if it would be an opportune time for new china as well." John said still trying to catch his breath.

"Tempting, but Mummy would only replace them with her same beloved Golden birds. She is of a mind that food placed on anything other than Wedgwood is rendered inedible."

"Well. It's nice to have tradition."

Mycroft smiled. "Shall we then? Though if you've a mind, there is a particularly garish pair of gargoyles just over here that I would take as a personal favor if your temporary derangement might see fit to encompass." He pointed with his umbrella.

"They don't look that bad."

Mycroft looked guilty in a naughty conspiratorial way, "They belong to Sherlock."

John throws his head back and laughs. "Say no more."

A crashing sound is soon followed by another. John handed Mycroft what was left of an ear. They each returned to the main house with smiles, one superior and one mollified.

High tea is observed with all the British charms. Conversation is light and did not involve subjects that would hinder digestion or consumption. John was not a fussy person, but it certainly didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the finer things of Mycroft's world.

John adored the smoky notes of the Lapsang Souchong. He had always loved Corinthian chicken sandwiches, to both Mycroft's and the chef's delight. He ignored the pastries entirely in favor of the warm scones with clotted cream and preserves.

John leans back in his chair in contentment. "That was amazing. You can't do this every day? I would have to change my name to John Waddle the Portly."

Mycroft shrugged. "No. I find dining alone or in my office, most usually, of far less pleasure. This was a treat, as I would add, was the company. You are a most accomplished conversationalist. I always viewed to be you the strong silent fellow wrapped up in his own small world. More of an adventurer with doctor being more of a practical consideration rather than cultural. I imagined you to be a bit of a colonist personality, direct and no-nonsense, ice water of a gunslinger but a rough on the social skills. Here I have discovered your deeply British traditionalist secret. What a divergent personality exists within your array of off-the-peg jumpers and unassuming mannerisms. You seem so very ordinary, yet you are anything but mediocre. "

John blushes slightly in the praise. "That can go both ways. You play the stodgy dull bureaucrat. The heartless, power wielding, old money and titled, ruthless aristocrat. Yet those things are both true and the perfect costume to hide the fact that I think you actually care about people. Secretly, I bet you are actually fun to work with; fear doesn't breed the loyalty I see in your people. They look at you like you're God, so does Sherlock when you aren't looking."

"From what well of brotherly lore could you have found such specious hope? You earlier alluded to a less pleasing deification. One of my minions offer you a deal?"

"Don't get excited, probably something in the food. No, I am sorry about earlier. I do pay attention, you know. You carefully put on your calm and button it in place like your understated but perfectly cut tweed. You break your self-imposed rules for those you pretend not to care about. You go out of your way for people, expecting not even a word of kindness, much less thanks in return. And as much as you want to play the pompous aloof tosser, you rarely miss what everyone needs without ever being asked. I can't do it like you and he can, can't pick up the details of how Joe Public has a skin condition that explains who he had a crush on in primary school, but I can see the skin condition and determine the level of pain it creates. Sometimes, I can even offer some options to make it stop itching. It isn't as dramatic and it doesn't stop people in their tracks, but it is important to the guy who is suffering. At least I think so."

Mycroft considers John's words. "So. How will you heal thyself, dear physician?"

John scratches his head and his eyes twinkle. "Some wounds, don't heal. Not really. Is that what this is? Trying to fix your brothers casualties?"

Mycroft's eyes raise a bit, "Perhaps. Who else can? You are not a bastion of trust and you have, for the most part, spent your life easing the pain of one wound by then dashing headlong into yet another. How do you suppose that will end, John Watson?"

John smirks and shrugs one shoulder, the damaged one of course. "Same way it does for everyone eventually, I suppose. I never looked at it that way. Not up close. But, I wouldn't have made it through my childhood if I waited to be all better before stomping the devil's tail again. Doesn't matter about the end, you know. The end isn't the part that counts." John tilts his head and smiles in a disarming bashful way.

He sees Mycroft is politely waiting for him to say more. John's eyes drop for a second, then he clears his throat and looks up to Sherlock's window, wondering if there is a shadow moving just behind the bars and curtains. " I beat the odds so far and made it to the middle. It's more than many got a chance for. Lot of my mates, found ends, just a fag and a pull out of short trousers, so to speak. Fresh faces and starry eyes and every one a damned hero. Maybe my jumpers and quiet things are my way of being old, because I really doubt I ever will be."

"You seemed pretty sure today that you were in grave danger. Did you open the door and greet death politely with tea? Or did you intend to be its messenger?" Mycroft removes a silver cigar box from an inner pocket, offering one to John before lighting his own.

John, nips the end, leans in and accepts the light and blows smoke up into the breeze before answering. "Anyone else, definitely the messenger. You? Not quite playing fair there. If it had been what you came round for, and I did jump to that conclusion, for which I am sorry. I don't know. It occurred to me that either way, Sherlock would be harmed. If I killed you, he'd never get over it. Me? Well, he'd probably still be talking to me six months later and annoyed that we were out of milk. Besides, not sure I want to kill you. Never meant to shoot him. If you can imagine. Not even right then, when I was the cranial equivalent to a fart in a colander."

John pulls hard on the cigar and eyes far away, he pauses to chuckle at himself. "I know what you will say, about sentiment. Its bollocks of course, even if it is true as well. But no. I am pretty sure it would have been me getting scrubbed off Greg's wall."

Mycroft breaks eye contact and is quiet. He sips his tea and seems to be trying to work something out. John politely searches the sky, while taking note of the guard's positions. He is looking for holes in the fence should he need to escape.

John suddenly laughs. "You were thinking about it. Weren't you?"

Mycroft smiled, "Not more than certain other times since making your acquaintance."

"I see. No. I don't see. What times? Exactly."

"That was a joke, of sorts. Though, I was displeased during the whole museum affair. I have to ask this, because I do not wish to assume I can predict you. You prove me wrong generally." Mycroft inhales smoke and resembles a dragon as he lets it curl slowly out of his mouth and nostrils. " Did you understand that he was saying farewell to you today? He is going to destroy himself. I won't be able to stop it for long… with all the Queen's men and minions. If you don't forgive him, nothing will put him back together again."

"No. Not over me. Not over this. He thinks too much of himself and too little of everyone else to ever…I mean walking on the fence to show off, sure. But, …No."

"We need to find your path to forgiveness. He may have made a terrible mistake, but had you not dropped the charges, there would never have been any trial. He would have judged himself far more harshly than we could. Being wrong is outside his coping ability in normal circumstances. He hasn't known much forgiveness in his life. Perhaps you should try."

" I am trying. He didn't seem very sorry. More inconvenienced. Like normal." John isn't trying to sound like he's making light of what Mycroft is saying, but he knows he's a science fiction fan. "What do you expect me to do captain? I'm a doctor not a magician."

Mycroft chuckles, eyes twinkling at the reference. "Would you speak to him again? Now? He's had time to adjust to the thought of speaking with you."

John sighed. "Of course. Just, don't expect. I can't make this all better with a cup of tea and a case. I shot him. Trust can't always be mended."

About this time, several abrasive noises began at once. Alarms howled and buzzers sounded. Mycroft's phone rang.

John smirked. "Escaped did he?"

"Third time this week."

John stands and scans the grounds. "Will I get shot if I do a bit of searching on my own?"

"Go. I will see to it that you don't."

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	7. Chapter 7 quest

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ A little tracking of the escaped. A thorny place. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 7 – quest

John's mind didn't work like Sherlock's but his instincts had rarely failed. His quarry was habitually unpredictable, but he isn't in top form and if John is slower, he's often less rash and therefore more efficient. He already knew where the holes in security were, so of the four obvious options, he picked the one that seemed the hardest. It took him ten minutes to locate Sherlock.

"So this is your plan then? You think dashing through the thorny hedges will go unnoticed? Looks painful. You should have worn leather. Donegal tweed frumpy coat and thorns? How is that working, Sherlock?"

"Get down. They will see you. I can't stay here. "

"Why not? Seems a bit nicer than jail. Though I do recommend solitary confinement. That was very nice indeed."

"Would you please go away before you attract the people from whom I am trying to escape?"

"Don't mind me. Just having a bit of a stroll. Any plans once you get yourself out of the briars? Though it looks to me as if you will require some clippers at this point. "

Sherlock's attempts to free himself but the shrubbery is acting much like a net full of fish hooks. He has a momentary melt down then shakes the whole mess in frustration. By the time he wears out, he's even more thoroughly impaled. John opens his phone and says pleasantly, "Your missing convalescent is with me. No, I don't believe he will be going anywhere soon. Tell them to bring hedge clippers. It's probably vital they do so, in fact."

Sherlock smiles hatefully. "Warm sweet revenge? You can do far better than that. I know you. I can make you lose your temper if it would help. It is a perfect opportunity. Should I tell you how much I liked it? Should I confess, it will be my dying vision? The roles are reversed here. I'm hopelessly skewered on these spines. Take your rightful justice, John. I've seen inside you. I know. When you can justify it, you like to kill."

"Shut up. God, you are such a bastard. You self-centered cruel …" John turns away, his heart pounding with more shame and hatred then he is willing to let anyone see.

"FreaK? Betrayer? Inhuman Psychopathic heartless waste of air? Oh, go ahead. At least voice the labels flitting through your head. Be creative, John. Don't hold back. You will have to do better to come up with something I haven't heard. They all warned you. What was it? Did you think you could tame a monster? Teach him how to care? Make him feel anything and keep him as your little pet? Did you think your pity would protect you?"

John spun on Sherlock, tears welling in his eyes. "Stop. I mean it. It isn't working."

"I think it is. I raped you. You were so warm and I want you again. Now. More than anything. I heard you scream. I took away all that idiotic trust you lavished upon me and showed you what I really am. You came in my hand, helpless and wanting to kill the thing that stole your hope. Do it. Kill it. It can't stop you now."

John shoves Sherlock. Sherlock hisses as the thorns dig into and rip his flesh. John's hands are at his throat and a new deadly thing is in his eyes as the hands clamp Sherlock's brains blood supply. "Is this what you want? You want me to hate you enough to kill you? Do you feel the darkness? See the little lights dancing to celebrate your end? You aren't even trying to stop me. You must want death pretty bad, Genius. Say 'please' if this is what you want. Say 'please kill me'."

No sound escapes but the lips form the words. Sherlock can no longer see John, his body sags, trapped in the thorns he no longer feels. Just as his eyes roll and he begins to drift on, knowing the transport is letting the computer burn all memory and the mother board will finally seize, he feels himself release in pleasure. "Oh, John, that was supposed to be a myth. It is all so pointless, but this was…" he is speaking, but it is soundless. No air can pass, so it is just his lips moving.

The hands let go, and Sherlock involuntarily sucks a gasp of air and chokes on it. He gags and coughs, flailing about in confusion. John is right in front of him, just looking at him like they are discussing tea. The anger is gone, but his face is splotchy and red.

He holds Sherlock's face firmly, forcing him to look at him. John's voice is husky but full of command. "I judge you not guilty, you wanking fraud. I sentence you to live. I demand you fix this. Do you hear me? You will fix this. Because if you don't I won't let you off this easy. I will torture you every fucking day until you apologize and fix this. It was a mistake. You are stuck with me you poor thoughtless child. And if you are a heartless monster and off yourself, I will tell everyone that you are a coward and that you never were very smart. Oh and just so you know, Irene isn't the only one who can blackmail people with a camera phone. Too bad for the trousers."

John smiles and lets Sherlock go, just as four tough looking men in nondescript made to measure suits of deepest blue, stroll up as if approaching an unpredictable escaped exotic cat. They are armed not with guns, but hedge clippers and a sedative. Mycroft follows on a little golf-cart.

John looks at Sherlock and narrows his eyes as he steps back and warns, "You will behave, or the coat will go in the bin."

It took half an hour to free him and another ten to free his coat. Sherlock plops on the back of the cart in absolute dejection. But his head half turns so he can keep John in his peripheral vision and his demeanor is no longer taunting and hateful. There is some small hope sparking and he is aloof and pretending to ignore his indignities. This subtle difference in posture and demeanor is an improvement.

John and Sherlock are alone in the 'secure' room Sherlock had just left. Someone had popped in and done some housekeeping while he was out. The stale butts were gone, bed made and floor hovered. Sherlock is face down on the floor in his silk pants and a kitschy quilt, while John attended to the numerous thorn wounds Sherlock had sustained. None of them were much more than superficial scratches, but his back, buttocks and lower legs had not fared well and he had thorns imbedded under his skin. John worked to gently remove the barbs. Sherlock didn't protest, more like the attention put him in a drowsy trance, though he would give an involuntary lurch once in a while.

"That should do it. Thirty seven. " John looks at the flannel sporting the various bits he'd just removed from Sherlock. "Two of them were practically broadswords."

Sherlock shrugs and smirks, "Whole place is full of big pricks, why should the hedges not follow along."

They both laughed, easy and for a second it seemed so normal between them. "Maybe you should take your brother off the list?"

"Why, biggest one of all. You leave him off the list…just proves that size does matter."

"Well. He did drag me kicking and screaming to visit. He did show me that…you had not just gone insane."

"A matter of degrees," Sherlock says dismissively. He sighed then almost mumbled, " He kept his promise, didn't he?"

"Mycroft? What promise."

"No. Not my useless brother. Moriarty. Has he not burned me to the ground? Burned my heart? That's what he promised. Do you remember? You trusted me with your life then. He burned that first. I wonder what will be next."

"Ahh. The catch all criminal? You are blaming him for this? Of course. Of course. Makes it simple, except it might cross your mind that he's got better things to do: jet setting all over the world, shoe shopping, eating chicken heads sautéed in the blood of innocents with caviar and truffles. He's a nutter with a world of cash. Honestly, starting to think you're as obsessed as he is. Maybe there are other people in the universe who you have ticked off. Might give that a go round the palace. " John says nodding but very clearly annoyed by the mention of the name. He had heard it too often lately and wondered if Sherlock was not edging toward fixation with this man.

"Trust defunct, check. Doubt engaged, check. Friendship smashed, perfectly. Humiliated, shot, locked up like a shameful family secret. How eager do you suppose the Yard will be to involve me? They barely tolerated me before, and now there will be no more Holmes and Watson, or cases. I will rot; my own mind will turn on me. I will be dead or a homeless forgotten addict sleeping on the streets by this time next year. More probably? Within a month."

"That is a terrible thing to imagine," John replies.

"We all need a goal oriented plan."

"I won't let that happen," John says, low and firm.

"Not much cop in words. Nobody will even notice. I have always been useless. It doesn't matter, at all."

"Doesn't matter? Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, even your network of hooligans, what do you think we would do without you? Mrs. Hudson would be devastated. And The Woman, what of her?" John says this in his most gentle authoritative doctor tone_. Don't worry, I will save you from it all and kiss your booboos; the doctor is in._

"Ah, but the other option is far less appealing. It would be the worst that could happen. Much worse than the first two. He's got it all planned I imagine. Clipped my wings, watch me helplessly throw myself to the cats. He sits back now and doesn't have to get his hands dirty. He spins a hundred little traps, calls in favors, and waits for me to stumble into one. He doesn't care which one works, because he knows I can't catch them all. He will drive anyone who tolerates me away, making sure they hate me. Only then, after he's burned everything and everyone in my life, will he show up to taunt me. Then, he will either kill me or try to convince me to join him. After all, playing by the rules is so boring. First there is this test. Can I survive? It doesn't matter, not really. I am out of his hair if I die in the process. But if I do survive despite all he throws at me, it proves I am like him. He wants me to convert. He wants to slowly transform me into his other half. He will drive me to the edge of sanity then offer me his own redemption, knowing none of the rest of you will, and he will bask in my gratitude, while standing in my shadow."

"Have you lost your mind? Why? There is no reason he would bother with all this? Killing us, sure. We are costing him money. That is predictable. He told us this. But, Sherlock, I need you to stay in the real world right now. Nobody is that good. He may send an army to kill us, and maybe. Maybe he will get lucky. But he will never beat you, unless you…give up." John is looking in Sherlock's eyes earnestly, his belief shining again and crinkling the corners of his eyes in charming furrows of worry.

" He will make me the most successful and infamous criminal of all time. The trade for that audience and the immortality of the world knowing my name is that when I am finally caught, and I will be. Most likely by one of my former colleagues, perhaps even a former friend. I will be the face of all the evil he's fashioned. Not one of you will stand at my grave with any maudlin dribble upon your lips. The vandals will see to my grave, before anyone who proclaims they owe me their lives will so much as admit ever having made my acquaintance. Even Mycroft will be disgraced and without him, Moriarty will rule the world. He walks away, free to enjoy his unimpeded triumph, just an anonymous shadow. Pay attention, John. Or one day, you may wish you had. "

"God you're so arrogant. The world revolves around Sherlock Holmes? I don't think so."

"You don't think at all. No one does. You believe in fairy tales, John. But you're worse than them all. You search for the good in all things. You believe the dragon is misunderstood. You face the world with your sword of courage and honor. But you will turn your back on me. You won't admit it right now, but he already unlocked the door. One day, you will look back and regret that you didn't finish me off while you could. You can't save me. All I ask is that you accept that I would rather be dead than see you look at me like you did that night. I know all the possible outcomes."

"Oh. So you have deduced us all, have you? You let him decide all of it? He only has the power to do that if you let him. Fine. It's all arranged then. I should just go. No need to consult Watson. Doesn't matter what I want. So I'll leave you to it then."

"What do you want, John?"

"I don't know. I want this whole thing to go away."

"It won't go away." Sherlock says then sighs heavily.

"So, we just what, exactly? Give up? Like you have?" John is getting frustrated. He runs his hands through his hair.

"Maybe the game is won. All the moves lead to defeat."

"Do they? A thousand years ago, there were knights who fought so bravely, that just a few of them could turn a battle. They gave up everything to join. Owned nothing, dressed in drab clothing. They were just men, but they had a reputation. They never gave up, no matter the odds." John says quiet and sure, as if describing himself.

Sherlock smiled, "They burned the Templars, John. They burned. That is a horrible analogy. They were humiliated and nothing could save them. You and your sentiment. The calling card of fools."

"That was just the end. Doesn't take one single victory away from them. Doesn't take their honor. They didn't win every battle, but even the ones who died losing, died fighting, not running. The end doesn't matter. It isn't a choice. You choose how you live. What will you choose?"

"John, stop pretending I have any choice. You already moved out. My brother manipulated you to come here or you wouldn't be here. You want nothing to do with me and I can't stand pity. Above all, not yours. So unless you know something I do not, there is little reason for me to bother. I am right. It will play out as I said. I have lost the advantage. In one stupid act, he took everything. So perfect. Can't you see?"

"No. I can't. See I am just this stupid idiot, who still thinks…"

"Who thinks what?"

"That the good guy wins."

"Oh, John. I have never been the good guy. You are the noble one. You could see something gallant in me. You are the only person who ever believed I was good. I have never mattered too much of anyone."

"You did to me."

"Past tense. History."

John shakes his head and drops his eyes. "Ok, whatever. While you muck around here feeling sorry for yourself, I'm going to find the bastard."

"And you will die. He didn't kill you, but he did stop your heart, from ever finding me worthy again. You will never again judge me without doubt. It's all over. Victory won. I am a loser now. Sentiment and losers, and I ate it up like Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. "

"I don't believe that. Never will. If it's over. It was you who let it end. Not him. Not me. Just you. I guess I was wrong. Because I was pretty sure, right up until this, that you…were… far too amazing to give up, far too brilliant to care what anyone thought, and entirely too arrogantly right to ever be so ordinary. Only you could make me believe the rules were wrong. You're the one who doesn't see. You taught me to question everything. I have spent the last three weeks, trying to figure out what to do now. I got more afraid every day. I couldn't think of anything that mattered."

"Please. You are a Doctor. Hardly makes you option challenged. You save lives for God's sake."

"So do you."

"Only a byproduct, not by intent."

"Funny though, Mycroft said you needed me and I am here, no matter what. Just like always. Deduce that Sherlock. I can still believe, if you give me half a chance."

"To what purpose? We had one thing on our side. It's broken. " Sherlock's brows are pulled together unable to fathom what John thinks right this minute.

"Tell me. All of it. Fix it. You are playing by his rules. Stop it." John says with a small smile playing on his lips.

"How will that help?"

John tilts his head and squints his eyes, "I need it. I need to hear it from you. "

"If this had not happened, would there ever… have been more?"

"More than what?"

"I need to know. If it had not been ruined. Did I ever have a hope? Did you ever once look at me as more than a friend. As I look at you?"

"God Sherlock, why would you ask that, now."

"Because. If You are to know it all, you have to know it all. Your answer matters only to me."

John didn't answer right away, he wandered over to the window and looked out for a long time. "I don't know. And I can't promise I will ever want that now."

"But did you? Before."

"God this is a mistake. Maybe. Alright yes. I thought so. But…"

"I understand."

John turns from the window. "I don't know if you do. I may never get close to there again. I won't say it is impossible, but I can't have you orbiting on false hope. This isn't starting from there, or even from the beginning. It's a deep sea dive, and it can't surface anytime soon. I can't delete it. I can't see the surface right now. It may be lost. You have to face that and I can't do it alone. You have to tell me. You shut me out now and it's done. I do care. But, all I can promise is that I am here. It isn't much to go on. I know. Could be, you are wasting your time."

Sherlock curls his lips slightly. "Could be dangerous?"

John nods. "It will be. If I am your heart, it could get broken even if you do everything right. I'm not sure I can live with it all. Your moods will be blacker than ever and it makes me responsible. I don't want to find a note someday that says 'Dear John, you did this.' I'd rather leave now. I don't want to hurt you."

"It is more than I had this morning."

"I'm not sure it is. We'll have to see."

Sherlock nods. "I will shower. I require a clear head and better garments for this. I will try, if you wish it. Anything you want. I would do anything, to fix this. I will accept any revenge, any judgment, punishment or act of contrition you could conceive that might aid your forgiveness. Think about what I have said. Then tell me what you want. Believe this one thing. If my life would be enough, and yet it is beyond what you can do, for sentiment or some other such misguided cause, I offer no protest. If you are absent when I return, no more need be said. Mycroft will notify you when I have completed the task."

"The task being? Oh, God no. Don't be an idiot. What did I just say? How could you think I want that? Besides, making you stop smoking, cold-turkey would be ten times more proof. "

Sherlock's eyes opened wide. "Well, that hurts. And here I thought you were so noble. I will make you a list of where to stash a corpse without it being noticed for a hundred years, if that is the cruel and inhuman thing with which you wish to punish me. You will be ready to kill me then for certain. The information may come in handy for you." Sherlock deadpans this, but a smirk creeps at the corners of his mouth.

"Do type it for me. Your handwriting can be atrocious." John says seriously. They look at each other in a moment of shock, but suddenly, they are just John and Sherlock again and there is nothing more giggle producing then a bit of maudlin humor.

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Thanks for reviewing!


	8. Chapter 8 Confess

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ The big talk, or at least the interesting parts. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Irene, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 8 – Confess

John had not expected it to hurt so much. Sherlock telling his side has not taken very long. Digging into emotions and all the things that slithered around that single terrible night, has opened as many wounds as it closed.

Sherlock sucks his breath in and his face blanks. "None of what I read was true. You didn't write it."

"God no."

"I don't know which is more awful. "

"What are you on about? Explain." John spins and looks at Sherlock.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does.

Sherlock lets out an annoyed sigh. " If it were true, then it would not have left us here."

John shrugs, then says, "No, but I can't say I'd prefer to live that. I might be dead now, you know. If what you found were true?"

"I'm aware. I lived it as a true thing for weeks you know. Every time you left the flat…it concerned me."

John looks carefully at Sherlock. "Did it? I mean how long ago had you read that thing?"

"Twelve weeks. I think it would be better not to know, then to wonder if this would be the night each time you went to get the milk. It was an impossible situation."

"Oh. That is actually very decent of you. Of course, had you not been prying into my personal things, none of this would ever have been an issue—"

Sherlock stood suddenly, "Say that again. Exactly like you did."

John looks blank and then frowns as he says, "I wasn't paying attention."

"Had I not been prying? Good lord. It is him. Remember? What am I saying you can't remember what you said ten seconds later? If you don't quit prying, I will burn you. He said that. Oh, he's so good. Don't you see? He's slapped my hand like a curious child? I was prying into your things and he's taught me a lesson. God he's a spider and I tapped the strings and he paralyzed me and covered me in silk. Saving me as a tasty morsel for later. I underestimated him." Sherlock spews his comments partially to John and partially to himself, then he stands stock still, eyes dancing with insane clicks and flickers, as Sherlock's brain fully engages and takes over all transport systems.

John has seen this before, but he's never quite seen anyone think so reflexively. John sets down to wait patiently in silence, knowing that Sherlock would come back when he was ready. He didn't notice his eyes sliding shut, he is so tired and hasn't slept for weeks.

John jumped when he realized he'd been asleep and his heart lurched in panic. He startles making his breath heave thickly and he has to swallow bile, rising with the panic. He's been asleep. He'd been asleep in front of Sherlock. Oh God. He tried to assess if he'd been drugged, but he was just sitting in a comfortable, wing backed chair, snoozing along as if he was in no danger, which had already proven not to be the case with Sherlock.

But they had talked and things had been set on the road to the friendship hospital. They might still be on a respirator, but they were going to make it. John sighed and relaxed, "Sorry, I think I dosed off."

Sherlock looked intensely at John, and then simply looked away. "And you awoke in pure terror."

"Hmmm? Didn't know where I was. What time is it then?" John asks, stretching and wanting to go back to sleep.

"Around two."

"What? Oh god, I have to go. I didn't tell Lestrade I was leaving. He must be frantic." John stood, checking his pockets and searching for his phone.

"Mycroft informed him of your whereabouts."

"Right. Ok then. Still, I should go."

Sherlock stood. "I… You could stay." His brows furrow and his speech goes low and fast, as if he's talking to himself. "I mean it is a drive back to London. You have no reason to travel so late to try to rest on Lestrade's saggy couch. The only reason you would go back is some ridiculous sense of decorum, though you were quite frightened upon realizing you had dosed off in my presence. Which didn't prove to be dangerous in this case, but it isn't as if you have to stay in my prison room. Mycroft has thirty-eight bedrooms, nine of which should be made up for guests who never exist. Spend an hour and a half to get back to London, three more to get back here in the morning. Add fifteen minutes on each end waiting for cars and that's five hours you could spend sleeping. No place safer than Fort Mycroft. I am locked into my room, relatively. Won't bother you. Unless of course you really don't plan to come back. You could have breakfast. You love breakfast. So only if I have failed to adequately make atonement would you feel the need to depart, "He takes a deep breath, "In which case you will not return and this has been a pointless gesture. Are you coming back, John?"

John stands looking at him baffled by this rapid fire thought hash. It is always best to start with the question and ignore all the warning fire. "I have no cloths. I didn't plan."

Sherlock said nothing. His eyes change. The grey fades as his glance intensifies and the muscles tighten around his eyes, narrowing, focusing and suddenly the irises are summer-grass-in-a-storm. John is always a little taken aback by the way his eyes pick up small changes of light and are a bluish-aqua one second and green or grey the next. In low light they occasionally appear amber. All of humanities eyes are boring compared to Sherlock's.

"What have I decided?" John asks.

Sherlock reaches carefully into John's shirt pocket, keeping eye contact so he won't scurry away at the touch, and takes his phone. He texts quickly and show's his results to John after he pushed send. [John will be staying. Needs cloths, toothbrush, razor, shampoo and a comb. SH]

Sherlock smiles as he returns the phone to John's shirt. "Did I forget anything?"

"I don't really need a comb. I don't suppose you'd let me change your dressing. It's a bit north of a bar stool. I can smell it is long past due and wet."

"Yes." Sherlock takes off his shirt and lies on the bed. "I didn't get any pain meds either."

"Oh, does it hurt?"

"This one is fine, but the exit wound is more of a problem." He replied looking at the ceiling and raising his arm.

John nods and begins carefully removing the sodden plasters. This is the first time he's examined the damage he'd done to Sherlock. "It didn't actually exit. This is where it was removed. It didn't have enough momentum. Went through the door first, hit your chest, but it was already flat so it didn't follow a straight path. Tumbled, but it was almost out, when it encountered this rib. It still had enough juice that it fractured the rib partially. Why it hurts more. Splintered it, but outward, thank goodness. Bone splinters in a thoracic wound act like secondary projectiles. Deadly this close to your heart. I dressed you with a make shift three point seal, which probably kept your lung inflated. But there was no exit wound."

"Sucking chest wound in that location. I was so devastated at that moment, so lost by your reaction. I just needed to get your kit and let you patch me up while you explained what I did wrong. I had been so careful. It never crossed my mind that you had not written those words. I was certain it had nicked my heart . You didn't say, goodbye." Sherlock says quietly.

"I didn't think you'd remember one way or the other. Sorry. I knew at once you were far beyond a field patch job. Couldn't mistake that for a flesh wound. Would have done more than nick it, if I had used the hollow points. Or if the door hadn't taken so much of the energy out of the slug before it reached you. It was lucky they didn't crack you open. Lucky it stayed in one piece."

"Were you, in attendance for the procedures?"

John sighs, regret weighing on him. "I was in the police station, trying not to lose it. They let me believe you had died. I didn't think to even question it. Trajectory is so unpredictable in the human body, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility."

"It must have been a comfort at that moment. Thinking I had paid for my crime." Sherlock looks away as if talking to John is boring.

John looks down on him. "You know, they told me that, and it hit me. I murdered my best friend. There wasn't anything comforting about it. I had never seen myself ending up in prison. I knew I would escape, mind you, but I couldn't process that I had nothing to escape for other than a probable encounter with one of your brother's finest. "

"It was self-defense. I did attack you."

"Somehow, that didn't matter much. I couldn't care less about jail or right or wrong. They kept trying to prove we were in a relationship and I had murdered you then tried to cover it with a story. I felt guilty."

"I still do."

John sighed. "Well, next time…just ask."

"Next. Time?" Sherlock looks himself suddenly, focused on a puzzle, even reclined his posture became rigid.

"Shut up. Next time we have a question about things, we ask. We talk before we take any actions that could have such consequences."

Sherlock collapses back to bored slouch. "Oh. Of course."

John feels his face flush. "I am so very sorry for this. You should be back home in a few days at least."

"Will you be?"

"I don't know."

"You said ask."

"I did. But I really don't know. It's, well I just don't know."

"If you work it out let me know. Mycroft won't let me go home alone. I won't last long here. He will put me back in Bedlam. Already threatened it. "

"What do you mean, back in? You have resided at Bethlam?"

Sherlock smirks, "Many times. Second home. Very touchy security. Harder to get out of there than this place. Surprised?"

"Yes. I am. Did he have you sectioned?"

"On Mummy's orders. I believe he mentioned, I upset her."

"In what way. What did you do?"

Sherlock curled his lip in a mischievous superior smile. "Everything. Absolutely everything."

* * *

Coming to the end of section one. Giving you the updates but will be out of town for two weeks. Please go ahead and review so I know if it is worth continuing?


	9. Chapter 9 Hounded

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ Short because it is the lead up to RBF_

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 9 – Hounded

It required effort those first uncomfortable days. John returned to the flat. He and Mrs. Hudson scrubbed the blood away. John replaces his door. There is no sign of what had occurred by the time Mycroft guides Sherlock up the stairs.

He glanced around the flat and smiled his thanks that his brother would be left with no visible reminders of the strange events that had played out here. He stayed for half an hour, being most pleasant to Mrs. Hudson. His cheerful mask faded slightly when John walked him to the door.

"I have Moriarty under surveillance. Please keep a careful eye on Sherlock. He has been very manic since this. I nearly had to take drastic measure with him."

"Ok. Thank you for everything. I mean it. Thank you. But Mycroft, I have to say this. I am sorry, but I can't let it go. If you ever threaten to institutionalize him again, just know it will be over my dead body. You can't do that to him. You can't."

Mycroft sighed, "John, I can't promise that. I fear that it will be your dead body that will require it. Do not be oblivious. Try to keep a low profile for a while. Watch him closely."

John nods stoically, no reaction to the warning. "I will."

Mycroft drove off and John took a great deep breath and scanned the street. He returned to the flat. He did his best to keep Sherlock entertained. They took one case after another. Nothing was spectacular, but it was important that he be seen as normal.

There was no hiding what had happened. The whole yard had buzzed with the hushed stories. John pretended to not be bothered and anytime the smirks and whispers got too close, he demonstrated exactly why he could command respect in the military. He had this look. He rarely used it until now, but his men had called it his Stop-a-lorry glare.

Lestrade dropped a word here and there explaining that there had been extenuating circumstances. It was hard to face everyone at first, devastating actually, but they showed up, did their job and pretended like all was well.

Eventually the stares and whispers faded. People grew bored by the way they appeared on scene professionally and mostly didn't engage in any banter with any of the teams. If they were waiting for Sherlock to flap his arms and do a chicken walk or for John to burst into tears, they were unable to find any joy.

If it hadn't been for the blog, revamped and more ascetically pleasing than the original, quite frankly, there would have been trouble. London seemed to be in a criminal funk. Sherlock had quit smoking and he was driving John insane, with his constant need for entertainment.

He arrived one morning sporting a harpoon and enough gore for a movie set. He'd ridden the tube and somehow wandered the streets in this state without getting arrested. It wasn't the first time. This time it was a pig. He is agitated. He owns a functioning har-bloody-poon. John set one appointment after another, no matter how crazy the story was, just to keep him a little entertained by being rude to total strangers.

Then all went to hell when the press got wind of them. They all wanted to interview Sherlock and John, beings there was so much copy to fill. John had managed to head them off without Sherlock catching on. But one solved case too many and trying to hide and keep a low profile as ordered, they had stolen a couple hats. It had the opposite effect of what they hoped for and the press went mad for the tall mystery man in the deerstalker.

Sherlock was offended that he was called a Boffin. John was furious that they called him a 'confirmed bachelor'. When his girlfriend read the stories, she jumped to the instant conclusion that he was cheating on her with the great Boffin and dumped him.

Sherlock, in the meantime, even managed to offend Mrs. Hudson. He was thrilled when some crazy story of monsters on the moors sparked Sherlock into a trip out of the city. At least it might get them out from under the scrutiny of the press. The tors were beautiful, amazing and dramatic. But they were just backdrop for the most incredible thing he'd ever seen.

Sherlock stood atop the stones in his great ridiculous coat, collars turned up, thank you, breeze bringing magic to his tussling hair and he looked like something from another world. He stands pointing this way and that, gloved hands looking like he could command a storm from the clear heavens, face cut with weight loss, eyes as hard as quartz and reflecting, yes reflecting the sky. Something in John stopped functioning. He no longer could fathom why he held on to such anger. He stood down below, answering his questions and yet he practically stuttered as his mind somehow turned the billowing coat into the dark wings of an avenging angel. He would never forget that moment. Sherlock was always his most stunning, when he wasn't trying to impress anyone.

The trip wasn't all sunshine. First there is the matter of the room. They were very sorry they could not accommodate them with a double room. The bed was far too tiny and fluffy. Both intended to sleep in the chair. John tried to hide his stupid fear of sleeping with Sherlock. There were so many mixed emotions tumbling around, it was too much to contemplate.

Of course Sherlock went to the heart of the problem. He went out to have chat with this hound of renowned. And chat, it seems he did. He came back acting strange; finally trying to convince John he'd seen the mythical beast. He was terrified and took it out as anger on John.

They solved the case, but there was a lot of arguing involved. Sherlock comes very close to a mental breakdown. Mycroft sends Lestrade up as a sort of mediator when Sherlock informs John that he basically doesn't consider a single person in the world his friend.

John calls Mycroft, and tells him that he needs to increase security, because John has had enough. It was forty minutes of pleading on Mycroft's part, to get John to stay. He plans to move out as soon as they get back to London. Being told he's not good enough to even be his friend, put all the forward steps of earlier, out into the barn.

He retracts this remark, saying he only has one friend. It would have meant the world to John to hear that Sherlock considered him his one true friend once. It might have meant more, if he'd said it without it being a damage control manipulative move.

John did forgive him, once it was discovered that Sherlock had been in the agitated state of withdrawal from an experimental drug being developed. John withdrew his forgiveness when it came to light that Sherlock tried to poison him. He wasn't successful, John was still drugged by accident, but his friend sat feet up and enjoying the fact that John was terrified. It hurt that he said he wasn't a friend, then made a huge deal that he is the only friend he has, just before toying with him without any concern that there may be long-term side effects or that it may exacerbate his PTSD.

John's level of patience with Sherlock has never been on such thin ice. One high profile case after another distracted them from personal matters. The blog is more popular than ever. Sherlock and he are the darlings of London. Sherlock accepts it all with a disdainful aloof vanity, as if he has finally taken his rightful place in the world. He professes not to care.

The more Sherlock acts atrociously rude and arrogant, the more they love him. They call him dashing, brilliant and hero. He's mysterious and the subject of romantic speculation. John is acknowledged as his assistant, companion and partner, most of which allude to things making it impossible for John to get a leg over any girl in the city.

Certain men, seem to have a very different attitude. He goes to shake someone's hand, and a phone number is pressed in his hand. He puts on his coat and phone numbers drop out of the sleeve. He buys coffee and there are phone numbers on the side of the cup. Girls all want to be his friend and take him shopping.

Sherlock seems to be having no similar male slanted incidents. Sherlock was signing autographs on women's breasts. Boring. Being asked out by models. Dull. And receiving proposals of marriage through the mail. Tedious. He thought it was amusing that John received so much attention that he didn't welcome. It gave them something in common.

John is completely baffled by this label, beings he had mastered the art of unassuming charm and that D-word in front of his name had opened doors and daisy chains to John on three continents. Dry spell, did not quite reveal the depth of rejection John experienced due to his unique proximity to Sherlock Holmes.

John fears that Sherlock is just too innocent to realize that he is now going to be held up to his own standards. One mistake, one moment in which there just aren't enough clues for him to solve a case and they will turn on him like piranha on a carcass.

John does his best to keep Sherlock's ego from detonation at the near veneration. It is incredibly stressful for John to keep him miming human behavior and keep the public from noticing how much effort he is exerting not to express his precise opinion of how stupid his adoring fans are.

He accepts the gifts, the photo flashes in his face and the windfall of high profile cases. Their bank account is not suffering. John is both proud of Sherlock and painfully aware that it always rains in London.

The game seems to be over. Moriarty is caught. He is shown sitting on the front page of every rag in London and the world sees the guilty man actually wearing the Crown Jewels. The trial is perfunctory. Sherlock doesn't quite realize that not being in contempt of the court would have prevented him being found in Contempt of Court. Stealing the pride of England is impossible. James Moriarty leaving that court room a free man was the most sinister moment of John's life up until that time. He had seen so much injustice during the war, but nothing ever ripped his faith in the world like the verdict he witnessed. He lost faith in almost everything at that moment.

Sherlock wasn't even surprised. He served the monster tea.

All is quiet, as the storm gathers. Moriarty is gone for no apparent reason. Maybe he's dead. Mycroft has certainly been watching and he would never share the information if he made him disappear.

The Dolorous Stroke in their shining tale begins with Sherlock working in a furious frenzy. Kidnaped children being fed mercury must be saved. Sherlock has one more victory. Then the little girl screamed. She looked up at her savior and his eyes, somehow so gentle and bright for children, and she recoiled in terror. The look on his face and his quiet manner afterward told John how badly this affected him. Lestrade tries to laugh it off with a bit of wit.

It wasn't funny when Lestrade shows up wanting to take Sherlock in to question him. He saved those kids and now they were acting like he was the criminal. Sherlock found bugs all over their flat. 221b felt like the criminal version of Trafalgar square.

Something nags at John and hours later, he is slammed up against a police car, next to the one thing in the world he still believes in without a second thought. "Bit of a weirdo," had made him mad. "whuggghhhthhht ur you lookin' at?" may as well been a bugle playing charge. Oh well, if you can't charm them, punch them in the nose. His career as a physician was practically over anyway.

When Sherlock holds a gun to his head, John never questions his faith in the man. When he stares at the approaching headlights, he trusts his friend's wisdom without question. Oh, of course Sherlock, if you say we need to die in this street for no apparent reason, then here I will stand, at your side watching the jolly bus run us down, where I belong.

John is tested. Jim's lies look real and Sherlock looks like a fool out-fooled. But faith and good intentions often have just the one destination. All fairy tales end in perdition. Real fairy tales never have a happy ending.

He stands there, watching him leave him behind again and this time he does understand. Who gave that catty-reporter the claws? There are only two possibilities and he could eliminate himself without any genius at all. Oh, Mycroft. His face was absolutely sick with worry, but John didn't feel very sorry for him, just then.

Mycroft Holmes loves his little brother. He's even cleverer than Sherlock. One more fairy tale John must bear witness too is told and John thinks the entire world has gone mad. He storms out of his office for the second time in a week. Sherlock is a fugitive, taking off for God knows where, brushing John off like he's worthless.

[Barts.]

Thank god. John can't get there fast enough. The former world's only consulting detective turned worlds second most conniving fugitive is sitting on the floor, playing with a racquetball. He has a plan. John has total faith in Sherlock. He will stay by his side no matter what. When this is all over, he is going to have to tell him that his outlook isn't so bleak. John's heart has healed. He's come to terms with the fact that this man is his heart as well. It isn't the time right now. He doesn't want to distract him.

The last moments of faith end. John didn't see past the story to the message until he stood in the entry with a very much alive Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, God…"


	10. Chapter 10 Wax

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned  
**Summary**:_ The fall and what John sees. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Irene, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 10 – wax

John realizes his mistake. He let the great manipulator send him away. "I'd be lost without my blogger." _Please, don't let me lose him. He is all I have left._

_Whatever you are doing Sherlock, I won't let you do it alone. You know I will turn up. _

_There you are in your great swishy coat and your collar turned up. Don't you dare? Don't you dare lose faith in me, Sherlock. I am here. I am right here. _

There is a moment when John knows. His heart is screaming that he will just not do this. If he were going to do this, he would say he loved him. That's what you say to people if it is your last moments. He'd said those things to Harry when he thought he was going to die, even if she couldn't hear them. He'd listened to the very last words of hundreds of boys, friends, enemies, or allies. The last words were always about who they loved and getting them that message. He would tell him that, as the last thing. Sherlock had done that when he shot him. He is safe until he hears those kinds of words.

They talk of the stupidest most confusing lies. Sherlock tells him to tell more lies. He wants him to say he's a fake. He must have a plan, and John searches for it. How can he help? Give a hint. Magic tricks and this is an apology. What the hell are you up to?

He's obviously not planning to actually jump. He would say it. If he says he loves him, then John will panic. Right now he's panicked that he is missing what he needs to do to help. But he said stand here.

"This is my note. It's what people do, isn't it. Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?" You don't mean it. You didn't say the most important thing. "No."

"Goodbye, John."

"Sherlock!" _You didn't say it. No._

_This isn't real. _

The ground is damp. What is he doing? What happened? Where is? Oh, no.

Blood. Blue eyes. Just blue now. The color of the sky an hour ago. The sky is grey now, but his eyes are so blue. No Pulse. Dead.

**_"Never regret thy fall,  
O Icarus of the fearless flight  
For the greatest tragedy of them all  
Is never to feel the burning light._**

**― Oscar Wilde**

Molly says the body is gone by the morning after his death. She shows John the photos of the autopsy. She cries as he rages and searches the morgue for Sherlock. He isn't there. John supposes Mycroft has the power to speed things along. Moriarty is still there, toe-tag reads Richard Brook.

"He isn't here. He never was. I mean, they aren't people anymore. His face. It wasn't the same. The impact. You wouldn't want, to see. John? Please, this is killing me too, you know? I was glad they took him so soon. I don't know how to do this." Molly finally just stood with her head in her hands, sobbing. John wasn't angry with her. Finally he calms down and wraps his arms around her.

"It's ok. I'm so sorry, Molly. I have been so bound up in me and so damned lost. I don't know what I was doing. I just needed to make myself believe. I can't believe he would leave me, like that." He gently pats her back and she leans into him shuddering and sniveling.

"Oh Molly. I didn't mean to upset you. Of course you of all people would know. Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me it was him. You're positive." John holds her by her shoulders and gives her his best friendly authority face.

"Oh, John. I looked for any flaw. I loved him for so long. I thought I knew him. I know I never counted, just the girl who brought coffee. And technically the occasional head." He covers her mouth and is crying and giggling too.

"Which immediately went in our fridge for me to find. No diet aids needed so long as his supplier was in a good mood." John jokes, feeling his tension easing a bit.

She looks down, speaking shyly, "I'm not stupid. But, I could never say no to him. I don't want him to be dead." She sniffs her nose. "I know I'm just useless Molly, but it didn't matter. All the awful things he said, I know he can't help it. I saw him. Horrible things came out of his mouth, but he did them for the right reasons, mostly. Don't you think? He warned me about Jim. I wanted him to be jealous, but he wasn't. And yet he was the only one who cared enough to tell me. The only one who paid attention? I was dating a monster, wasn't I? Did you know, he broke us up? Not then, but that night at the club?"

"How did he break you up?"

"He put something in my drink. Jim, him, whoever he was. I just came back from the loo. He seemed so nice. Really caring and gentle. Sherlock followed us. He showed up before I drank it. Pushed Jim up against the wall and told him if he ever came near his sister again, he'd see me on a professional level. Like this I suppose." She giggles with her tears. "He put my drink in an evidence bag. He drug me down here. And we spent the evening testing it. My only sort of date with Sherlock Holmes. His sister? It hurt my feelings at the time."

"I didn't know," John says with a deep sigh. "He cared about you. You do know that? Sister? That's pretty big for Sherlock."

Molly closes her eyes and nods, her face pulls into pain for a second then she takes two deep breaths and giggles again. The giggle felt like an apology for being so emotional. She drops her voice to a whisper, "He knew. I think. He came here and told me he always trusted me and thought I was his friend. He would never have said that to me if he wasn't afraid. I feel like it is my fault. I missed it."

"No. No. Not your fault. His fault. He was so lucky and he had no idea. Two people. Two people who would have done anything. Anything. For him. You. Me. And others too. I don't have that." John shakes his head and looks at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "It's why I'm so mad."

"Me either. Maybe we are too nice?" She shrugs.

Johns face curls in to a strange leer. "That is very true, but just about one of us."

Molly laughs then it dawns on her what he said and her face drops into confusion.

"Just you dear. Me? I'm more the revenge type."

"Oh." She tries to smile, but it is false and nervous. " He's dead isn't he? I mean, it's all over. Isn't it? You could hack him up a bit, but I'll do that when I do the autopsy. You can help if you want or not. Revenge for what?"

John looks over toward the body of Richard Brook. He crosses his arms and speaks to the floor. His head turns left, then right slowly. "I don't know yet. But give me time. I always turn up." He looks up at her and grins his disarming reassuring smile. "I should be going."

"John? If you should need anything? I mean even, I could help you, when you decide. About the revenge. I want to help. For him, you know?"

He tilts his head back and appraises her. "I will keep that in mind. Thanks."

Molly nods and blushes a little.

Meaningless rituals are observed. John sheds no tears at the strange ceremony. It is full of people who attended out of respect for Mycroft, and John only spotted a few who actually knew Sherlock. Those who he didn't see were unspeakable cowards in John's mind. Donovan and Lestrade are the only two people he recognizes from the Yard. John refused to bow his head during the banal prayers. He glared around at the reporters snapping discrete photos.

Mrs. Holmes is little more than a presence, face covered and surrounded by her own protective entourage. She speaks in a soft dead voice, thanking him for coming. Mycroft quickly herds Mummy away.

John stays behind, watching the casket lowered. He continues to sit, alone, unwilling to leave his friend. He wonders how many factions of this story watch him. Criminals, authorities, governmental spies, reporters, nosy looky-loos and maybe one ghost all set his instincts on alert. He realizes that he doesn't even care.

He stays in a hotel for a week. Then two. But he can't stay away forever. Mrs. Hudson asks him to come home. He tells her he can't, but he does. She's alone and afraid. She hears noises.

They say the fake genius killed Richard Brook then jumped. The headlines and fame are no longer singing Sherlock's praise. No resting in peace. Sherlock is still falling.

They say the fake detective murdered that poor actor, Richard Brook. His suicide is said to have been his only solution because he realized that he would face charges for murder, evading the authorities, endangering police, kidnapping, holding his flat-mate at gun point, conspiracy, treason and fraud. They blame all the wrong things, his career forever gone, his freedom to be forfeited for the rest of his life probably, and all his lies about to make him the laughing stock of London. Well someone with an ego like his just couldn't handle the pressure. There was little sympathy for Sherlock and John is guilty by association.

Poor Richard, the story-teller, is suddenly portrayed as a tragic victim. His DVD is re-released and appears in shop windows and children hate the man who killed their favorite story-time pal. His best loved tale is that of Sir Boast-a-lot. John buys a copy and he's ready to kill Moriarty all over again.

The list of the late Mr. Holmes' crimes is too big even for his brother to have swept under the carpet. Mycroft is under investigation. Sherlock's legacy seemed to just keep handing people surprises. The flat at Baker Street is ransacked more than fifteen times in one two week span. The yard won't even answer John's calls now. Mycroft warns him to take what he wants and leave. The elder Holmes pays for Mrs. Hudson to take her sister on extended holiday.

John stays.

The violin is taken to Mycroft's for safe keeping. John is so angry at Mycroft, but the grief is glowing on his face and his career is down the toilet, so at the moment he reaches out too and John doesn't mention his that he asked for this. He's been a friend. He's made a terrible mistake. John can't kick him when he's down.

Mycroft confesses, he suspected too. "He called me, John. He never calls. I offered to get him out of the country. He said no. He wouldn't leave you, and he said you would not go with him. He said he had a plan and he swore to me it would all be over within twenty-four hours. How could I have missed it? My only job since I was seven years old, has been to watch out for my brother. I failed. He sent me a damned text, just before."

John swallows the lump in his throat, and clears his throat several times before he gets the question to pass his lips. "What…did it say?"

"Take care of him. I trust you. I will always love you both. And then he was gone. Just gone."

John could barely believe his eyes. Well, they were rather blurred, but he still saw Mycroft cry.

_I would have gone. Sherlock, you are such an idiot. It's the solar system. Spectacularly ignorant. All you had to do was ask. _

For days John just sits and imagines the two of them on the skid, caped avengers, solving crimes on an international scale. Two nameless minor aids to the British government perhaps. Men in black off to save the world from spiders and florescent bunnies.

It becomes far less about sorting, Sherlock's possessions then it is about the removal of destroyed items. John spends an afternoon, patiently gluing the skull back together. He eventually stops locking the door. Leaves a note. "Come on in and look. Good luck. You are number (_). Please pick up after yourself, I do have to live here."

John had the pleasure of also facing charges for aiding and abetting a fugitive and breaking and entering, thanks to the newest superstar reporter, Kitty Reilly.

He also has to answer for assaulting a policeman in the performance of his duty. John mentions to the judge that verbally bashing people with disabilities isn't found on his list of duties. "Seems to me, that he should be disciplined for unprofessional conduct."

"I hardly think the suspect could be called disabled." The judge says firmly disgusted.

From the back of the room, "Oh but he was. I have a statement from his nearest relative, and detailed reports of the various conditions the person in question overcame."

"It doesn't give anyone the right to bloody the nose of an official." The judge says peeking over his glasses in anger.

"Well, we can't have our Superintendents out making disparaging remarks toward the disabled either. And when one challenges someone to fisticuffs, being the losing party does not absolve them of their conduct."

"Who are you?"

"If it pleases the court, I am the one making motion to dismiss the charges. The Doctor Watson is my client."

Of course, John knew nothing about it. Mycroft had seen to it all. Those charges were dropped.

His medical license is suspended until his culpability in Sherlock Holmes criminal activities can be investigated. John pins the revocation to the fireplace mantle, with a hunting knife.

John wanders among the debris of his life, dissecting the actions that lead to such failure. He sometimes goes to the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He doesn't have any fear of this place, nor intent to jump. If he got that desperate he could manage a cocktail in a syringe that would be far less dramatic and guaranteed to not produce a surviving statistic.

Standing now where Sherlock stood a little over a month ago, John feels more clear-headed. It is a sacred place to him, looking down at where he fell. This is so much better than the grave yard. This is the last thing he saw. His last view of the world makes John feel close to him.

The rock Mycroft picked then just put his name and nothing else, means naught to John. This place was washed in his blood, the gateway of his spirit. Nobody came up here now. That suited John. He wonders what his last thoughts were. Did he just for one second, realize he was wrong? He never uttered a sound. No scream. Just tumbling face down eyes open,

What is missing?

He never said he loved John. _Oh but he did_. He left without saying it. _Just not to you._ The most important thing. He hadn't let John say it. It wasn't real. He stopped loving John or he would have said it. _Don't be ridicules, he told Mycroft to watch over me. I don't need watching over, thank you._

**_"Why do you care what they think of me?"_**

_Because I miss an annoying dick who took a taxi without me again, and I can't even text you how mad I am. Thought you'd out live me to get the last word in, yet this silence is even more heinous._

_What will people think when I avenge all this. Will they care?_

_Will caring save any of them? I will kill them all for what they are doing to you and me, Sherlock._

_Does it matter if they care? Or that I do? Did it matter to you after all?_

_No, damned every single one of them. I won't make that mistake again, Sherlock. You were right._

_The lord said, go to the devil. John Watson repeated that cry. He had no idea where to run._

"It has been eighteen months since you have been here." The therapist says in a neutral tone.

"Do you read the papers? You know why I'm here." John says as if she's taking a piss. He's not suicidal, but a murder rampage is boiling just below his skin. She is clueless as ever.

Fifteen minutes later, as she tried to convince him that he had to accept that Sherlock could no longer cope with the lies about to come out, he told his therapist to go to the devil.

Mycroft finally comes to him, after several days of trying to unsuccessfully collect him. John offers him tea from the same service Sherlock used to serve Moriarty tea. There is only one unbroken mug in the flat other than the blue and white service.

John used to play a lot of poker. He doesn't smile at Mycroft, but at his tells. Mycroft knows something he's not sharing. The devil is always in the details.

The tea service will be smashed and in the bin within hours. John goes for a walk to think, and returned to fine the flat trashed, again. They were still searching for the code. John searches too. He has no idea what he's looking for, but not a scrap of lint passes his notice.

Sally Donovan expresses her condolences as John comes in to make yet another statement. John waits and his eyes narrow. "No need to apologize," he says with pleasant expression despite the sarcasm.

"I waddn't wrong. Always thought you had to be mostly saint, to put up wiff that. I am sorry for you. But in the long stretch, I probably saved your life. Not sorry for that." Her pity is so full of gleeful pride.

John moves close to her and wrinkles his nose. "See a gynecologist soon. And hope he doesn't do his job the way you do yours. There is a very distinctive odor caused by what Anderson gave you. Keep that in mind. Remember who you betrayed and who you trusted." John smiles and walks away. There was hell to pay for Anderson.

Lestrade came by one afternoon. John and Mrs. Hudson were carefully packing the last of his things. Mrs. Hudson had had enough holiday. She had enough of her sister too. The burglars didn't seem to be bothering anyone, just tracking up the lino and giving her fewer things to dust. She preferred the burglars.

John hands Lestrade a box. Sherlock had nicked quite a collection from him over the years. "I think most of this belongs to you, Detective Inspector. The rest, well, I will let you decide what to tell the owners."

Greg didn't ask for forgiveness. "It's just Greg now. I resigned. Got to move myself at the end of the month. "

John looked at him for a moment. "Upstairs bedroom is available."

"Probably not a great idea, John. I tend to drink a lot when…" he trails off.

"Yeah? Well I shoot people when they piss me off. I will probably be shooting more. I leave newspapers all over the place. I fix tea all the time. Obsessively actually. And the skull stays. "

Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "At least this one doesn't bring home body parts. "

"I arrested him. You're not bloody serious?"

"I punched your boss. Besides, I'm a bit unemployable right now. May have the place to yourself by next month. You did it for me. Thought we got on ok? I have taken up my clarinet again."

"Well don't tell him that. Gawd-awful squawking, worse than…the traffic noise." She helpfully adds, until she got to the part about what the clarinet sounded worse than, and then she busied herself to hide the tears.

Lestrade shakes his head, "Too posh for my blood. I got no job either. Mrs. Hudson can't live on my good nature."

"Well, you move in for now. Didn't I tell you? Mr. Holmes paid me up for two years. Even if John gets sent to, governmental accommodations, place will just sit empty. It's leased. Be good for John to have the company and maybe you can do something about all these burglars. It's sinful the way the yard is treating him. I'm filing a complaint. Now, I will go make us some nibbles, while you boys sort it out."

"That would be very nice, Thank you," Lestrade says, eyes wide.

"Just this once. Not your housekeeper."

John Watson told a lot of people to go to the devil. But there were some people who stuck around to walk through hell with him.

_"Hero's don't exist." _I believe in them and you.

_"I've only got one."_ Me too. Sherlock. Me too.

_"Nobody can stop an idea."_ I will never believe you were a fake.

_"I'll just be myself."_ People will talk.

_"Will you do this for me?"_ No, I won't. I won't tell them you were a fraud.

Oh, Sherlock, maybe you taught me too much. I see. I observe.

You made one mistake. The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience. All your little puzzles, making me dance. Mycroft knows something.

Maybe it was just those damned instincts again, but when Lestrade moved in, they talked a lot about Sherlock. They put together a pretty good timeline of Sherlock's last days.

John pulled out his old clarinet and played, standing at the window, playing and watching.

The game is on.

* * *

Thank you for reading. This is the end of section one. I will begin section two as soon as possible. It begins with Sherlock's view of the events leading up to RBF and goes into some of his motive. I am doing a different JW here, one who does not fall apart, just stomps on the devils tale. Lots of fun ahead I hope - and this is so much easier now that I have actually seen the series. Your reviews count - please leave one and to those of you who have, many Thanks.


	11. Chapter 11, part 2, Sinnerman

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Dammed, part II, Sinnerman  
**Summary**:_ Sherlock's version up to the reappearance of Moriarty._

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Sinnerman

**_Sinnerman, you oughta be prayin'….._**

Somehow the wound scabbed over a little. Sherlock made every effort not to pick at it. He knew it should have been a fatal wound. Yet he is still here. John is still here. Oh, the scar between them is puckered and livid and still painful, but the friendship has lived through the wound and it is trying to knit back together and be functional.

Sherlock keeps himself busy. He takes dozens of cases that he would have just rolled his eyes at before. When there is nothing, and even his experiments have lost their shine, he works on pieces and bits of long closed secrecies. He knows that if he stays busy, there is less chance he will have the free time to offend John.

John continues to date and though it does affect Sherlock, he doesn't make any actual effort to run any of them off now. He knows he's put John into some sort of manhood crisis and he definitely struts with more confidence after hackneyed shag. Sherlock actually enjoys some of the cases and he accepts more than he ever expected.

One case buried in bygone mystery and deemed unsolvable, that he just works on for fun, makes his name when he returns a lost treasure to its rightful owners. He had always been intrigued with art thieves and The Reichenbach Falls was one of his favorite works. It took a great deal of effort and he'd found the same dead ends as all the amateurs and hobbyists who had searched in the past. He got into a bit of a scuffle with a film crew who were sure he was trying to ruin their documentary, but that whole affair only took John calling Mycroft for the matter to be dropped. He was out of lockup before he was finished processing. When he'd called up the appropriate officials, with their painting, they had thought he was taking a piss. He carried it into the Diogenes Club and parked it in Mycroft's study.

Mycroft recognized it at once. It was the first time he'd seen Mycroft with tears of pride in his eyes in at least 25 years. It was Sherlock's 'thank you' to Mycroft for all he'd done to smooth things over with John.

"Do whatever you want with it. I tried to give it back. They don't seem to want it. Finders keepers. Happy birthday or whatever holiday is nearest, that requires the handing over of useless knickknacks." Sherlock says while sitting cross-legged on top of Mycroft's desk as if he is a very naughty Buddhist with no other spot to go into a calming trance.

"Oh Sherlock, you clever, clever boy," Mycrofft said with a sigh and his hands trembling in joy. Sherlock acted like Mycroft was a sentimental tosser and yet he could have asked for no higher praise.

This was the turning point in his return to good graces in the eyes of those who whispered of his discredit at The Yard. He hadn't cared about the gossip, but it had embarrassed John.

He would have rather died than cause John a moment's pain. He had offered, quite earnestly, in fact. There are moments in which he is certain death would have been the better, at least kinder, option for him. Sherlock did everything he could to heal the bloody mess between himself and the doctor. He stopped smoking. He put up with John's annoying invitations for interviews with potential clients who were so extraordinarily unsuitable that he assumed John had decided this form of suffering was an extension of the punishment. He greeted each person politely and no matter how imbecilic, he allowed them to blather on for some time before throwing them out. He hoped John knew how much effort he was making on behalf of meeting John's zealous etiquette standard.

John did have some personality points that confused him. John expected him to lie to children. He had been lied to as a child and he hated it. Just because people were short and inexperienced did not make them stupid. How could adults smile and say such hurtful things to young brilliant beings? Oh, it got the adult off the hook for the moment, but in the long run, it only plastered a toe while lopping off the leg. Sherlock liked some children, most in fact, and he would never disrespect them by lying to them about what actually happened to their grandfather. They cared so much and so purely, like he had once.

He didn't need to take the case, he explained carefully in simple terms, precisely within their vocabulary range. John may not have approved but the youngest girl was actually relieved. It took the oldest a moment of shock but that was only because she'd rather come to expect things to be laid out for her in intangible gibberish.

The most embarrassing part for Sherlock was honestly the damned hat. It was the most hideous twee thing he'd ever been caught wearing and now they were everywhere. It had no front or back beings it had two bills, convenient for shading the eyes in the back of his head. It had ear flaps for God's sake. They tied with a little bow at the top. The Frisbee of death could not be contained as a one-time fluke. John and his little blog even sported a photo of him in it. What kind of friend played into such utter nonsense? Evidently a friend who could be seen in atrocious jumpers and used rotary razors and still missed the same area three days out of every four.

John suddenly wanted to keep a low profile. God, what did any of it matter? All Sherlock wanted was for things to be like they were before, and now he was suddenly in the wrong because others were paying attention. Even the damned hat photos were free advertising and back when they were so private nobody knew their names, wasn't it the destitute doctor in the room, who constantly harped on their need to inform the public of their services?

Sherlock rubbed his temples, dreaming of smoke filled rooms, and quiet flat-mates as John served him another lecture about what he should do, didn't do right and could have changed, along with his milkless tea. God he needed a real case. He almost missed Moriarty.

He felt more or less himself by the time he agreed to go out to the Tors. He stood on Hound's Tor, sensitivity alive and exhilarated by the open skies and the wind. It was as if there was enough space for his mind here. All his thoughts had room to breathe at once and the wind carried off the distractions of all the past voices locked away, not accurately deleted, so much as stored in high security prisons, and no matter how hard he tried, sometimes the echoing chambers were overwhelming. There was silence here. It was almost cocaine.

He would never explain to John. But, Sherlock wanted, with every fiber, to see the actual creature of legend with his own eyes. Just as he'd wanted to see Nessie on the last real family trip to Scotland, just to prove Mycroft wrong. Sherlock wanted to see something made of real magic, just once. He had obsessively looked for real magic at one time, always disappointed by the trick, while capable of appreciating the mastery of ingenious slight-of-hand skill. Sherlock still wanted, more than anything, to believe in dragons and pirate treasure. John would have laughed at him as mercilessly as Mycroft always had. Mummy told him a secret once and to this day, he still believed her. Mummy swore that Father came back from the dead. She was not making it up. Mummy had cried when she told him and she swore him to secrecy and never told Mycroft.

Sherlock had gotten his wish. He'd seen the damned thing and it terrified him. For a moment, his unrelenting world of disprovable myths actually existed. For a moment, there was more to the world than he'd ever dreamed could be true. Of course, he soon realized, it was just a trick. The hound was just a lie, told in whispers, to cover an ugly truth. Still, until his hard-drive stopped recognizing the harmful software introduced in the mist, he didn't function at full capacity.

He almost lost his rock. He knew how close he came to watching John walk out of his life. He opened himself in a desperate stop-gap measure, letting John see the desperate needy side of him. He explained how vital John was to him in the only way he knew was good enough without venturing into things that would make him scowl. He did mean it. John was the only person he considered an equal, who had ever truly liked him at all, without some chemically fed mating drive or random bloodline obligation. Dear Mrs. Hudson loved everyone to a fault. There had been an occasional blip on his radar, usually lasting less than a few weeks. He had vast acquaintances, but those didn't count, existing as mere give and take relationships in circumstances of convenience.

John loved him enough to see him and not run away because he said something wrong. He couldn't be put off by things Sherlock only contained with great effort. John was even slowly trying to forgive him for what Moriarty tricked him into doing. That didn't mean he wouldn't ever leave. There were moments he knew John struggled to find the grace to tolerate him.

That aside, the small missteps in social poise, if Sherlock slipped, John actually found it charming and laughed with him, not always at him. He was constantly handing Sherlock useful hints. Well, he didn't care at all about most of them, but when John explained why people he didn't want to offend were offended, it often made perfectly sound future reference. If he had not caught John's expression at Christmas, he may have not realized how incredibly horrible he'd made Molly feel. God, he adored Molly, but he could not always understand how tender she was. John didn't fix things he didn't want to fix, and most opinions just didn't count in any way, but for those opinions that did, John was slowly giving Sherlock tools to filter some of his truthfulness. John never asked him to lie, but he did make him aware of subtle truths.

Sherlock could see what people he didn't know wanted to hear, and turn on his manipulation to great effect. Sentiment was his blind spot. Once he let someone get too close, his mind found them blurry. He would forgive the people he actually cared about any flaw of the universe, with the exception of directly hurting someone else he cared about. The Woman was not allowed to hurt his brother. Mycroft was not allowed to hurt John.

Shamefully, if Sherlock discovered that John was a secret ax-murderer, he would've never solved one of his crimes. If Lestrade showed up on his doorstep admitting he'd accidently started the zombie apocalypse, Sherlock would let him in while he researched a cure. He might call them idiots, but he would never turn them away. The first time he'd ever killed a man, it had been for Mycroft. To this day, Mycroft has not figured it out. Nobody ever will in either he or Mycroft's lifetime.

He'd proved it long ago with Mrs. Hudson. He'd proved it with his friend on the mantle as well. He would go to the ends of the earth to protect and maintain those few lives who actually valued him.

Of course he had to push people away and pretend he had no heart, because he certainly couldn't afford to let very many people have that sort of power over him. Sometimes it was very hard to know that his form of love was not really a two way street. People left him, said they loved him, and then deserted him. John opened doors of insight Sherlock had long ago given up trying to map.

If John left, he knew he deserved it. John had not left and that alone made him his greatest friend of all time. On top of it, Sherlock is in love with John, and though he could survive if John never felt the same way, he wasn't so sure he could survive losing him altogether. That had been swirling in him already, but the drug he'd accidentally come in contact with had shown him more than an imaginary beasty on a darkened moor. That substance had shown him with horrific clarity, the death of John Watson. His greatest fear is not a hound.

In his vision, he'd been in London. He was on a case without any detail, just an amalgam of past impressions, and they stood in a bombed out version of the NSY building. John was with him yet he could not find him. He searched the rubble and found dozens of corpses. None of them mattered but the one with the open blue eyes and the still smoking jumper. His skin was not actually visible under the grey blast residue. He was an outline of John in grey chalk, a statue of death. His mouth was open and full of the choking substance that had probably made his last seconds agonizing. The eyes had probably been closed until he'd actually succumbed to injury, percussion and debris. Then he'd turned his head, eyes opening for a last search for help, for someone, maybe even for Sherlock. He had been with him, just seconds ago. Now he laid, body unrecognizable, face pulled into his last gasp of life, but his eyes have partially relaxed open and they drew Sherlock and stopped all gravity from existing.

Sherlock is to blame. He didn't have the details, but he knew. John died alone. John died and Sherlock knew who killed him. His vision blurred through a dozen scenarios of what would become of him. Sherlock, became another kind of monster. He displayed his corpses to be found and whispered about. He saw his revenge on the planners of the bomb and he was justified. But it wasn't enough for him. He widened his pool of revenge to all genetic lines of those responsible for killing his John. That wasn't enough. The Sherlock John loved, stopped existing. The Sherlock Mycroft could ignore or ever hope to save, passed out of the world without fanfare. The last moment of this terror, Sherlock saw a much older version of his brother looking at him sadly through a steel door with a glass observation hole. Sherlock had laughed at Mycroft's face and screamed, "Stupid sentiment, brother. Caring killed them all!"

In the end, John sat eating while Sherlock literally went to see a man about a dog and H.O.U.N.D. was easy enough to obtain.

Sherlock left the facility with a sizable sample of this interesting substance. He had to be very careful with it, of course. It had a very useful quality which he extracted in a more pure form, leaving behind some of the nasty side effects. He didn't tell John that he had returned to 221b with this compound of damnation. He did find it a useful addition to his ability to understand John's mind.

Sherlock discovered that once the hallucinogenic properties could be quarantined, and the fear inducing factor adjusted to much lower levels, H.O.U.N.D. could be an enlightening short term and relatively harmless type of truth inducing inhalant. The best feature he had accentuated was that the subject had little actual recall of what had been discussed. He was sure that Mycroft would find his work most useful and he was saving it to trade for something special.

He had tried it on several people, producing remarkably entertaining results. Mycroft was absolutely the most scrumptious in his confessions. Sherlock was absolutely careful that the main side effects were out of his system before he allowed his brother back to the affairs of his dull job, but there was nothing that Sherlock found more amusing then Mycroft on an honesty binge. He'd gained leverage to last a lifetime in a few afternoons.

John had proved more educational. He might shoot him again if he actually discovered what Sherlock has been up to, but knowing exactly where he stood with his flat mate was too vital not to consider all resources at his disposal. Most of the middle of the night sessions simply confirmed that Sherlock was on the right road and every new administration told him exactly what he needed to do to keep John happy. It didn't solve everything, and sometimes Sherlock took things John liked a bit too far.

At first, John was chuffed by the small mentions of their work in some of the papers. The public attention, and resulting influx of cash seemed to please John and relieve his stress in that they were high profile and worthy of mention. John had expressed his doubts all along, that was why he'd taken the low profile case in Dartmoor.

"They always turn, Sherlock, and they will turn on you."

But much later, under the drug, John confessed how very gratified it made him, when the press got wind of certain projects. This did make sense beings he continued to blog about the cases, often giving personal details that floored Sherlock. They were already in the limelight, so John's secret basking in the accolades let Sherlock relax and enjoy the attention. He learned that his John, had too much humility and ingrained worry that 'pride goeth before a fall' to be able to admit that he was pleased, but that didn't mean he shunned it with quite as much gusto as he pretended.

The things John really wanted, that he would never ask for as himself, were easy to extract and gleefully forthcoming with just a bit of assistance. He was terrified of being a burden, not being useful, and financial insolvency. Sherlock discovered it was a rare thing that John wanted something that Sherlock could not magically provide.

Only twice did Sherlock regret his small charlatan game. John seemed to have a terrible frighteningly depressive reaction under the influence of the drug a single time, and once after Sherlock really began to see the whole picture with Moriarty, he didn't like some of John's answers.

The first bad reaction seemed to come out of the blue as Sherlock tried to work through how to fix the terrible event that had occurred between them. He was calmly asking John his list of questions when suddenly John's eyes rolled and his body went rigid. It was just for a split second but John began to weep. Sherlock had no idea what to do and nothing from tea to sitting on him seemed to calm him. John explained in painful detail that he'd long thought of suicide. Sherlock was horrified. That could not happen to his John. That was not acceptable.

This occasion made Sherlock vow never to use the drug on John again. Perhaps there was some cumulative effect he'd overlooked, but he never wanted to see John like that again. He did do it one more time, but he considered it a small emergency. He wanted to know what he should do to make John safe if Moriarty fulfilled his promise. Sherlock didn't want John caught up in his promised fall. He had every intention of winning, but he wanted John away. This is one battle he had to fight alone.

**"Falling's just like flying, except for the destination."**

John answered, "There is nothing you can do that will make me safe. I'd give my life for yours in an instant."

"But I don't want that. What would I have to say, to send you away if I saw the odds were very slim?"

"I have already planned it. I want it. Every day I know it will come down to it one way or another. Sometimes it's the only thing that makes me stay with you. I know one of us will lose one day and I promise you, it will be me. No matter what you do, it will be me. There is no other option," John said with the most pleasant, eerie smile as if he's only discussing a game of Cluedo. It is the drug, but it feels portentous.

This chilled Sherlock. This wasn't a passing promise; this was the core of truth that John could never tell him in any other way. There were no filters on these statements. This is John existing with no barriers. Sherlock knew this about John in some ways, but he'd never quite realized it was more than an impulsive decision. "How would I stop you then? What if I lie to you?"

"I am not that easy to fool. I would never let you fool me. I know you too well. There is no answer."

Sherlock couldn't allow it. He was sure that John was already Moriarty's first target. 'I told you.' He'd said sitting in this very chair carving an apple into an IOU. 'side of the angels' and the picture of wings with an IOU had been by their front door. It was no coincidence. His vision he'd had when he'd been under the influence of this drug, could not come true.

Things were going so beautifully. Sherlock was busy researching the death of Sir Henry Fishguard. He has long been thought to have been murdered. But it still had never been solved. Unfortunately, Sherlock discovers that in fact, Fishguard murdered himself. He chose to hang himself. The Bow Street boys mucked up the crime scene to save face for the Fishguard family. A fourteen year old pregnant servant girl was about to ruin him. He could not face the public scandal. John made a disparaging comment about the value of his little hobby cases. Not all of them were worthy of museum honorariums or Knighthoods, but for God's sake he was trying.

John, nosy as ever, insisted on bringing it to his attention that his phone is again doing that thing phones are given to do. He tends to read out all sorts of inane texts as if they are of any importance. There hasn't been a decent case since Mycroft snatched Moriarty from his posh hotel bed. Three-continents-Watson is in the middle of a spectacular dry spell and it is making him incredibly testy. Sherlock tries with all his will not to allow this tragic waste of both their respective talents result in exacerbating this into one of their domestics, as Mrs. Hudson calls them.

"He's back. Moriarty is back," John says evenly.

_London is at Daddy's mercy now. Mycroft, you idiot._


	12. Chapter 12, part 2, Rockslide

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned, part 2, Rockslide  
**Summary**:_ Sherlocks final problems, his thoughts and why he does what he does. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**_Rockslide_**

**_Don't you see I need you, rock?  
Lord, Lord, Lord  
All along dem day_**

Moriarty is arrested of course. He is the new media sensation. At least it gets Sherlock and the damned hat off the page.

He's asked to testify. He's an expert.

John looks at him uncomfortable and almost like he pities him. Sherlock can't help but dress with the solemnity of going to his own funeral. The press is an insanity of familiar faces, and he may have not been able to do this, if John had not been there to ground him. His face hides his terror. There is too much information and it sweeps his system as predatory danger. There are too many smells and sounds. People and their disturbing need to cover their scents with deodorant and lotion and shampoo and hairspray and perfume and aftershave becomes repulsive when they scrunch and swell into a mass. Toothpaste and sour breath are of equal note as he feels the tiny drops of spittle from inconceivable questions bombarding him and he is begging the universe to not let him lose the churning tea in his stomach.

On the way, John shows how little faith he has in him.

"Remember—"

"Yes."

"Remember –"

"Yes!"

_Just shut up, John. Please don't do this right now._

"Intelligent is fine, but I'd give smart-ass a wide berth," John manages to say.

"I'll just be myself." _That is what you have told me in the past._

"Have you heard a word I've said?"

_Of course, John, and many more you think you have not. Your vote of confidence is so very encouraging. Perhaps we should have brought the riding crop and you could stand next to the witness box and keep me in line. How can you not understand there is no need to bother with this? There will be no conviction. We are just dancing in his circus. Don't be such a fool, John. You disappoint me. _

_I wonder how he plans to do it. Will he shoot me in open court? How will he get the weapon into court? No, he will prove his point first. How could you, Mycroft? How could you let him go? I never believed you actually wanted me dead, brother. It makes sense, I admit, but I think you have broken my heart just a little. _

_ It won't be long now. Not today, but not long._

_ I will meet with my solicitor tomorrow, should have done so already. I wonder if John will be surprised. What will he use it for? Maybe he will travel. I would have liked to travel with him. I never saw much of America. Florida was a bit garish and yet desolate. New York smelled funny. I wanted to see Africa and the Galapagos islands. I wanted to see more of Canada than just Toronto. I hope he travels._

_ Perhaps he will become a novelist if he ever learns to spell properly. I would so enjoy solving his little imagined crime stories, or offering a twist ot two while he writes them. I wonder if he might include some small bits of us in his ramblings? Bestseller by Dr. John H. Watson, yes that would do nicely. I should comment later and plant the idea in his mind._

_The judge doesn't understand. He's an idiot. There isn't one person in this room smart enough to see Moriarty for what he is other than myself and John. He's still flirting. So what's your plan now, Jim? Pop out for a shag? Offer to take me with you? Ride off into the sunset together? Leave John alone. Kill me if you can little spider, but I will die with you before you touch John or The Woman. _

_Irene. My dear one. You should never have broken your cover to save me. Sending those papers to Mycroft was a fool's task. Oh, but thank you. Have you any idea how much I will miss you, woman of chains and wits. The Woman. The Other friend. Yes. Friends. How amazing. Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson. Greg Lestrade. Maybe even Sally Donovan in a vague peculiar way. _

_Well, wish me luck, John. It's begun._

_Contempt of court. Well, they are not wrong. Did I make it so obvious? Good work then._

_I stand just inches from him. His cell, right next to me. I can smell him, Patchouli, citrus, lilac, amber, and brimstone. I can feel him over there. He is like a low pressure zone, sucking all the good from the world. Why me Jim?_

_John is in one of his 'I told you so' huffs. I listen to the timber of his voice, ignoring the words. His voice calms me provided I don't pay attention to his obvious oblivious observations._

_He goes to court without me afterward. No real reason for me to bother even if I were allowed. His texts are so hopeful and naive. I could explain to him, in precise terms for his vocabulary level, but then he would try to get in the way. _

_The verdict, shall we count my life in minutes now? What shall I do with them? Mycroft was so impressed that John met his imagined murderer with tea. That is rather a lovely idea. Perhaps one of them will notice and understand, it means I knew. _

_Violin. Old Bess. My longest friend. Making love to you for a last time. _

_Gun, handy. Atomizing truth mist in pocket. Stair creaking. Release and cab over here in less than twenty-eight minutes, must have tipped the driver well to have made the trip so quickly. No, private driver, not afraid to speed. Strange, no second. He's alone? Clean hands not such a priority in this case? Right on time and John won't be home for at least an hour. Probably three, with his pace, if he walks the whole way. Do save that cab fare, John. Our business should be all concluded by then. Win or lose. Game over._

"Most people knock, but then you aren't most people…"

Sherlock cheated on John, once Jim left that is. It was a most unsatisfying encounter, but the luxury of the two cigarettes afterward, made it less disappointing_. Didn't come to kill me, just to toy with me. He made his offer and I made mine. Neither of us found the other as amusing as could be expected. His words were somehow more sad than threatening. I am unsure if our encounter cheered him up. He is hiding his depression, and it makes me somewhat appalled. How boring to have such power and still find it all worthless. I pretend to be a sociopath. He pretends he isn't one._

The nothing that follows, is breathtaking_. I hope Mycroft doesn't let him go this time. I bury myself in the work and pretend each day that my brother will do his job. John is skittish for a few days, but he slowly falls into the lull of normal._

Two months go by and John watches Sherlock warily. Sherlock has stopped his weekly meeting with P.U.P. beings it had seemed to almost give John a seizure. P.U.P. needs much work on it and there is so little time. Perhaps lowering the dose for long term use would prevent the issue. Sherlock needs data but, he won't use this on John again. He had tons of volunteers, though with so many drugs sweeping through their systems, it can be hard to determine what is caused by the inhalant he administered and what is caused by the fact some of the subjects would sell out their kidneys for the next hit.

Sherlock gently begins to detach from his friend. He is careful to keep his steps imperceptible, but it is necessary until this all plays out. John barely notices.

Sherlock doesn't understand it is Moriarty when he begins. He waits on John, though if he'd taken much longer it would have really been aggravating. Sally gives off a strange vibe. Her words are very poignantly complementary and her face pulls into a passable friendly gesture, yet there is an undercurrent of snarl. Sherlock passes off her odd behavior as Lestrade forcing her to contain her constant sarcasm.

She would have been promoted long ago if she'd been able to show the self-control to contain her mouth. Good, if Lestrade has finally explained it to her, London can hope for news of a new Detective Inspector soon. Sherlock misses the banter he and she shared long ago. The quick wit, though gut wrenchingly dark at times, at least proved she wasn't actually afraid of him. There were times she actually did hurt him a bit, but she was his only whimsical distraction at a crime scene for years before John. Anderson actually hates him, wasting infinite energy on the emotion. Sally dislikes him, but Sherlock never felt she would fit in with the mob of Jackals. She is smarter than the lot of them, just a bit lost at times. Sally is worthy to be almost a second Lestrade. He's actually recommended her for promotion three times.

Perhaps it will take this time, if he mentions her assistance in solving this case. She is the one to happen on the exact location of the children's hiding place. She has fantastic observation skills and quite the dedication to learning. She had asked more questions of Sherlock than ever before. She seemed so interested and exuded a genuine respect for the science behind what he'd done. He patiently explains his steps to her, flattered by her calm scrutiny. She seems to realize that he had not meant to frighten the poor child in any way.

She acts as kind as he's ever seen her, even though he is obviously shaken by the little girl's reaction. Lestrade is philosophical about the whole business, making jokes about wanting to scream every time Sherlock walks in a room. He doesn't engage in banter. Across the street, something moves. The lights flash on and it becomes clear to Sherlock why this case was so chaotically clever and yet the kidnaping held no motive or clear purpose. It is all a sham. He's free again and on the hunt.

**I. ****O. U.**

No. This can't be. What are you thinking, Mycroft. Sherlock swallows, having lost track of the conversation in the room. It is time to go. He must get away from John.

Sally leans toward him, eyes soft, smile flitting to her lips. "It was really amazing what you did. Saving those kids."

He pauses and drops his eyes, pleased. "Thank you." You will make an amazing Detective, and I hope you know you deserve it. He can't actually say those things, but he hopes his quiet response conveys it. He moved on to leave, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Unbelievable. Actually," she adds. The words are quite mild, but there is so much venom in them.

Oh. Sherlock can't even respond_. I missed your game entirely, didn't I Sally? A jackal after all? It doesn't matter. I may not make it back to Baker Street alive. Head shot in the cab, more than likely. You should enjoy labeling any of the bits and the gore will have Anderson exploding all over you before you are warmed up. I imagine a dead freak will make for quite the engulfing sexual liaison. Please, not in the actual presence of my discarded transport. Spontaneous postmortem gastrointestinal rupture would result if there is such thing as karma. _

John waits for him. He's hailed a cab for them. No. Head shot, could hit John as well. "No. This cab is mine. You get the next one."

John looks like a wounded puppy. "What? Why?"

"Need to think. You might talk." _Or get in the way of a bullet for me, which would be infinitely worse than what is probably about to happen. Oh, God. John. I have to get you away in some permanent fashion until this plays out._

_He texts Mycroft. [ I imagine you realize, a farewell is imminent? Twice. I can't believe you turned him out on me twice without so much as a word. Soon to be late SH]_

_[Don't be so dramatic, brother. You know I will protect you. M]_

_[and what of John? SH]_

_[A given, of course. It might help if you didn't leave him stranded on the street every time he annoys you. M]_

_[Not annoyed. Trying to save him the vision of a head shot and the misery of rinsing my brain matter out of his jumper. SH]_

_[Have I ever let you down? When it actually mattered? M]_

_[No need to grace that with an answer. Much less a list requiring giga-storage.]_

_The cab driver. How the hell did he miss this? _"Stop the cab. Now!"

_Dear God. What is it with cabbies being people wanting to kill him? _

"I Owe You!" Moriarty says and laughs as he drives off.

_ Point Moriarty and here I stand in the middle of the street. Come on then. Show my brother how useless he is. Breaks squeal. A figure knocks him out of the way. _

"Thank you."_ I am not myself tonight, you see. I am about to die but, what a lovely gesture. Shaking hands with him and confused because he is as far from a John Watson noble sort as could be imagined. Mercenary by profession, MI6 person of interest, kidney stone sufferer, and set up nearby on assignment. Just blew his cover. The stranger lurches, dancing to the echoing beat of sniper metronome. _

_He falls. Sherlock braces for the impact of the next round. They could not have missed? Nothing, where are they? I don't understand. Damned it, the man barely touched me. Did they kill him for that? Oh, John, for God's sake not now. No, don't touch me. Mycroft will have a crew here soon. I give him a questioning look directly at the CCTV camera._

_I don't explain to John, I can't._

_I know where Mycroft's bugs are in our flat. But I realize there are others. He's been watching. All our private conversations, every move is compromised. _

"Well it seems we still have some friends on the force. That was Lestrade. They are bringing you in for questioning, for kidnapping." John's face is dark with betrayal.

John and Sherlock argue about him refusing the less official invitation to be publicly arrested and disgraced. Of course, he is back on course. They will be back. This time he won't be able to politely refuse. He hopes to anger John in such a way that he will tell him off and leave for the camera.

John is a tenacious stubborn fool. But Sherlock is too honored by such trust to show any reaction even if it was tempered with the addition of the moniker 'annoying dick'_. Actually quite witty, John. Not a penile reference, but a nickname for a private investigator in all your horrible little crime novels._

[Do you see? They will arrest me soon. SH]

[I will send a car around. Do not run. M]

[ Don't be a fool. You can't fix it now. Leave this one to me, brother. I will see it wrapped up within the next 24 hours, I assure you. SH]

[I have new pirate adventures arranged. Please. For the both of you. M]

[You will have to trust me. And no. John would never go with me. I can't escape JM and he would only use John against me. My plan is better. SH]

[Which means you don't have one. M]

[Which means I have several. Fluidity is the key to bending around any obstacle and cutting off the oxygen rather than demanding the opponent stop breathing while you are at a disadvantage. SH]

[Do spare me your useless ancient wisdom. You never listened to idiots before. M]

[I listened to you far more than you ever knew, brother dear. SH]

[Well, now I am truly frightened! M]

[24 hours. Do this for me. I will get you the key code. Believe it to be here somewhere. Hardly a danger to have time to search. SH]

[An amazing accomplishment from Jail? M]

[Hello, nice to meet you. The name is Sherlock Holmes. Let me emphasis the Holmes part. SH]

[It was Donovan, you know. M]

[Yes. Assumed. Have you ever believed in me?]

[You know the answer. M]

[Prove it now. I need 24 hours. SH]

[Do not make too many messes for me to clean up. I am not your housekeeper. Do not die. You will find hell quite dull, I assure you. MH]

[You are the expert. I knew Mrs. H was in your pocket. Not afraid of hell or its tweed clad, umbrella carrying prefect. SH]

[Higher. Not one minute more. ]

[Thank you.]

[Keep John with you. I have great confidence in him.]

[Me too. SH]

_His plan is brilliant and I have nothing to fight him with. Nobody does. Not even my mighty brother. But I don't have to make it easy on him. I don't have to play. I have to change the rules to win. The good news is he's not after John any longer. _

Lestrade comes himself. The sorrow in his eyes is not as vibrant as the fear. Sherlock isn't sure if it is fear for him or of him, but he offers no resistance to the cuffs. John is in battle mode and outraged that Lestrade is leading Sherlock's betrayal.

Sherlock takes a last long look at John. "He's just doing his job, John." Sherlock glances at Sally, as he is lead out. Reporters flash long distance pictures.

There are twelve police cars here and Sherlock is left against a cruiser. On display, easy target. Jim maybe wants to see him fail to escape? He may die by cop, beings some are from Leman Street over in Whitechapel. Central Operations Specialist Firearms Command (CO19). Sherlock smiled, a little at several familiar faces. He'd never been on this end of the 'blue berets' before. What a lavish production for one unarmed man, who was in good standing less than ten hours ago leading them on the search for the missing children.

_Oh. He owns some of you too?. I wonder if you were settled with the actual torture of two innocent children? Mercury poisoning, and not elemental, which would have been safer. They both will probably suffer kidney damage and the boy has terrible odds for permanent brain damage. Which of you, among London's finest, complacently allowed two lives to be forever damaged by this one grand gesture? He's insane. How do you reconcile your guilt? And I am the sociopath._

_Can't see you in your gear, can I? I would pick you out face to face. Oh well, first things first. Back to the death bit. How do I beat you, Jim, when you are not here? I need to see you. This anonymously making educated guesses on your next move is useless. How do I tempt you to come out to play with me in person? What do you want the most? You want to watch me fall. In what way? Fall for what? Fall from grace? Damned like you are?_

_ Am I meant to be killed escaping or will it take place alone in my cell? Hanging never appealed to me much. You know you'll have to be quick, to fake my suicide while in custody, because you have all seen Mycroft's ability to disentangle things. So, what flavor shall I choose?_

John is suddenly slammed painfully into the side of the cruiser, left next to Sherlock as the older man is searched. Well, that settles that. "Joining me then?"

"Apparently it is against the law to punch Chief Superintendents in the nose." John patiently lets the officer handcuff them together.

"Funny that. Shouldn't make it so tempting." They share a smile. Sherlock bursts out a real chuckle as his eyes track the wandering walk of injury, despite the guidance of the two officers at the Chief's side. Lestrade glares at Sherlock who slides his eyes to John, with a little grin of pride. Poor Greg, turns his back in defeat at the implications and paperwork this will involve. His shoulders sag, but there is just the slightest shutter indicating suppressed mirth.

_ Well that should keep Mycroft entertained for a moment or two. Whimpy oaf, should have observed Doctor Watson's body posture more closely. He had a wicked throttle for such a seemingly mild mannered man. But that weight shift and shoulder drop never reaches his eyes, so there isn't the normal posturing and bluff to go by. Weight shift, shoulder drop, pain. That is his John. He doesn't pretend to be tough. He is tough, and only pretends he's harmless. _

"Yeah. No one to bail us." His career is flashing before his eyes. He doesn't regret the action, but he is not as settled with the consequences.

Sherlock looks at him, the question in his eyes. John's eyes are steady. "Actually I was planning something more along the lines of an escape."

"Not surprised. Not leaving me behind, you know?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock says, noting the relief on his flat-mate's face.

The night goes by in a blur. They sit in the darkness on the tiny fold out lilo. John and Sherlock, facing the ultimate darkness, chained to each other with binds much more restricting than the pair of handcuffs. Sherlock doesn't have his lock-picks; those disappeared into Lestrade's pocket when the others were not looking.

"Why are you afraid, Sherlock." Johns voice is so quiet, and conveys something hopeless.

"I'm not. Afraid."

"Don't. Just don't. I just want to help."

"I know. I do know that. I just can't have you in the way."

"In the way of what? Bullets? You don't mean that. I know. Alright? I know. The assassins. What you were trying to say back at the flat."

"You still don't see. You must not." Sherlock whispers the last part and struggles to not sniffle.

"Not without me. Do you underst—"

"Yes."

"I mean it."

"Yes."

"Sherlock? I would never forgive you."

"I know that."

"Good. Because, I am a little scared."

"Don't be. I will win. I always do."

"Ok, then. Yes. We will be fine then? It's going to work out. Somehow," John is asking to be let in on the plan, but when no response comes in the dark, he accepts. "Fine. All fine." His breathing says otherwise.

Kitty Reily, Richard Brook and again he's leaving John. He must. If he can't control the end, he can't stop it's fated outcome. He must see Molly.


	13. Chapter 13, part 2, Last Confession

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned, part 2, Last Confession  
**Summary**:_ Sherlock and Molly plan for many possible outcomes. They each make their surprise confessions. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Irene, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Last confession**

**_So I run to the river, it was bleedin'  
I run to the sea, it was bleedin'_**

Molly's eyes look up at him earnestly, steady and true. "What do you need? Anything. I mean…I mean anything."

"You."

Her eyes hit the floor and she flushes and bites her lip. Her eyes return, more there, more sure than Sherlock has ever seen them. "Yes. What. I don't care. You know it won't matter, it's yes. Drop the shy, mysterious, unsure routine. I know you. This is just like the Fox Club. Important. Just like with Jim. It is about him. Isn't it?"

Sherlock smiles and touches her face reverently. "Yes. He's going to kill me. I have never … been so aware of the futility. How much do you really see, little Molly? How much are you willing to hurt for someone who is falling? My star is setting, not rising. I won't hold it against you if you say no. I wouldn't do it for you."

"Do what?"

"Everything you are, good, kind..honest. Never mind, I can't ask it. I just wanted you to know, you do count. Tomorrow, when you do my autopsy, be sure and weigh my heart carefully." He actually smiles with morbid humor. "Photograph it and email about to all those people who said I didn't have one. Can you promise me one last bit of fun?"

She didn't crack a smile. "It won't be very funny to me. Or John."

He dipped his head, properly shamed. "Of course. Goodnight then. Best be on my way." He whirls around and brushes past her.

"I said yes, you know. I will help."

He stops, slowly turning. "There's nothing much you can do. I do appreciate the thought, but I can't see that there's much logic in putting you to such concern."

A strange smile curls Molly's lips with a flash of lightening power within her eyes. She twinkles at him, all her beaten-down nervous twiddle set aside. "Don't be too sure. You don't see me at all. You never did. And you would do it for me. You did, remember? You aren't who you show them, at all. The thing is, neither am I, exactly."

"Then why show me now? You never wanted me to see? Molly, why?"

"You didn't need to see. Wouldn't have changed how you felt. Not really."

"I don't…no perhaps not. But, you don't even know what I am asking for."

"Damned it, Sherlock. That's true, I don't know. I'm hopeless and I know it. Doesn't matter. But, you never had to use it against me. I didn't let you, in fact. The answers were always yes. I just made you work for things a bit. How much time do we have? I heard on the news. You want me to hide you. Yes. No matter what. Now get on with it and stop acting concussed. Oh, unless you are? Did you hit your head in the escape?" Her hands reach up and she feels his skull with expertise. She isn't flirting or hesitant. Danger, his, has changed her.

"I am fine. No wounds."

"You didn't actually shoot John did you?" she asks spinning and searching for him slightly. "Where is he?"

Sherlock is usually more adaptable, but this Molly has shocked him into having lost his entire course of manipulation. "How could you ask me that?"

She looks at him and rolls her eyes, and then she lets out a slightly airy giggle of nerves. "Not sure even death would keep your Doctor away, Sherlock," Molly says.

He laughs. He shakes his head at her. "My Doctor. Are you a closet Whovian? I do need a Tardis. That would be perfect. Any of those about?"

She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "Short of that. You have to tell me what you need for me to get it for you."

"I don't know for certain what I need exactly. I'm winging it here. I may die. All there is to it. I hope to prevent that outcome. The variables are exponential and I am calculating ways of narrowing the scope. Come with me to the roof?"

She shrugs. "ok?"

The city of London spreads out in dazzling clamor before them. Molly shivers and Sherlock opens his coat to protect her from the wind. She accepts the gesture, slipping her cold arms around his waist.

"What I need is an escape hatch. An invisible hope. I have to change the rules, Molly. He has to be dead. I may win, beat him. I may have to take him with me. Either of those options is fine. No, don't look like that. Needs must and no regret. But there is a small chance that he will have something that he can, use to guarantee his success. It's so easy for him. A hostage, a bomb, a child held at gunpoint or something from the past that would end the world for someone another way. I will have to do as he asks. I hope he still wants to play which will give me time to come after him."

"He won't. He only dated me to hurt you. That's why you didn't tell me. I always wondered if you knew that day? Is that why you came to The Fox?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No. Not until he took John. I didn't tell you. Because if I did, it would have…John thought it would…make you feel horrible."

"It did. All those people he was bombing. And I had no idea. You must think I'm stupid."

"No. A little desperate sometimes. I think I understand desperate, of course." He is trying to keep the subject light, but his façade is failing on the ends. He's blurting truths wrapped in mordant edges. He's not charming and powerful at this moment, but more chaotic and nearing a manic self-immolation.

"Then how do I keep you alive? Tell me?"

" He will want to see me jump and fall. His words, so I am tempting him with the perfect location, to play out his fairytale of me. I don't know, but I am betting. I have calculated. A fall of seventy feet is survivable. Any more and that 30 percent goes into the single digits. If I wait for him to pick a location, he holds all the cards. I will kill him if I can, but there are complications. We have to map out possible, probable and what advantages we can find in each case. If he were to gain the upper hand, how do I survive? It is a long way down there from this angle."

Molly looks over the edge. There is one person strolling slowly up the sidewalk and crossing to the ambulance bay. "The truth is. Being right here, it is easily possible. You could survive. The main problem with it… I mean the most likely thing that would happen. Have you thought of what your life might be? If you do survive, it could be complicated." Her eyes are wide, and he at once latches on to what she is saying.

"Not all wounds can heal, can they Molls? Massive injury. Yes, it has occurred to me. Damaged transport would be so tiresome."

"I would take care of you," she blurts. "Even if you weren't really…in there anymore."

"I could be brain dead. Oh, a fate far worse than death." Sherlock looks ill. "No. Unacceptable. Maybe trying to survive is the wrong goal. Perhaps I should be insuring… I would rather…"

"Be dead. I know. I. I could do that too. But only for brain damage. Catastrophic brain damage."

He tilts his head at her, confused. "Molly. You would never be able to stand it – John. You would have to get him to help you." Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration.

"Don't say what you think you know. You don't know. You don't. You never looked."

He swallows. "Ok. What do I not know?"

"I have, you know. Helped people leave who didn't want to be here." She whispers, pure terror mixed with defiance in her expression.

His eyes widen. "Of course. Molly. I am…" He gives up trying to speak and just tucks her back in his coat and holds her.

She speaks to his chest, not looking at him. "I know. I do. And with who you are? Not a great idea to tell you. But, you need to know it isn't a promise made that can't be kept. Wheel chairs, spinal injury you are on your own with it. But, I know for you, your mind. I wouldn't leave you like that."

"So, who and how many?" he looks at her closely with a wary respect.

She shook her head. "I'm in love, not stupid."

It dawns on him what she wants to hide. He holds his breath for a moment as he works out the important thing she's not saying. "I worked your case. Didn't I?"

She sighed. He could feel her tremble and squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. "Two of them."

"And I was wrong?" The thought of that made him go tense.

She smiled and shrugged. "You called one suicide and one natural causes. And..and boring. I made a mistake on the first one you reviewed. You didn't miss it, but you dismissed it. I wouldn't have let someone go to jail. I promise."

"I believe you. But, how did you fool me?"

"Same way I always did. I'm invisible to you. So I could learn. How you think. What you notice. I got better at it. A… A lot better." She says with slight pride at seeing his shock.

He looks away, out on the city, his voice quivers slightly as he speaks, "I taught you to be a serial killer? How commendable. A fitting epitaph to the life works of a disgraced freak." Sherlock held his face blank and looked up at the foggy pink sky wishing for a last star. Maybe it's better not to know. Seeing clearly didn't make much happy or change much come to think of it.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean to…make it sound like…well it doesn't matter. Not our problem right now. Live. Stay alive and I will explain. Then you won't be mad."

"I'm not mad at you. I see so much. But I am lost when …I care."

She shakes her head, "Air bag. Easiest. Even the small ones are rated for seventy feet. Even if you both go."

"No time for all that."

"Trained crew, two minute set up. Forty-five seconds inflates it. Down in three minutes…less if it isn't packed correctly."

"It's a waste of time. He will shoot me or one of his men will as soon as I walk out of the building. I wish there was some way to stay dead for a while. Fool him. I need to be away from John. If I were dead, I could hunt him and a few of his friends. It would take a ghost to bring them down. I could keep John out of danger and have the element of surprise. But that complicates everything. They would want to see me laid out in barbarous display. The thought of them all gapping at me makes me feel like some roué. The doctor and my brother. A hard pair to fool. It can be done. But not on such short…"

"Come. I have something to show you." She and he return to the morgue. Molly is dragging him toward the cooler.

She points. "That one. When he came in. I thought. Well just look."

He unzips the bag. "Who is this?"

"Don't' know. But, over here. Look. Do you know what that is?"

"Hydrargyria, mercury poisoning. It seems we have our kidnapper. And, an explanation for my apparent guilt?"

" Like those kids? It was all over the news you saved them."

"And then?"

"That you did it. They put it more correctly, but that's what it meant of course. But he was already here."

"Cause of death?"

"He bled out, see here?" she unzips the bag further, and shows him a wounded leg.

"Explains the lack of livor mortis. Still have issue with the ocular clouding and he's more than 24 hours out. Lenses are white, body temperature is fixed, and he's in full Rigor. Nobody will mistake him for a freshly dead me. It won't fool Mycroft. Much less John. Close, but not possible. No time to stage the crime scene. And tossing a corpse off a building in broad daylight might be noticed." He looks at the cadaver. Close. So close.

"Why not, stage it tonight? Now, in the dark?"

"The point is, that it is my last resort. I intend to beat him. I don't want to actually have to die, but I don't want to really disappear either."

"Would that be so terrible? I would. It would be a whole new chance. Sounds a bit exciting," she hints.

"I know what you think it sounds like and what you imagine you would like, but Molly, I am not.."

"I know. I'm your sister. Not good enough, not pretty or smart or poised posh pudding or from the right sort of family or..or anything—"

"Please listen to me. I should have addressed this long ago."

"No. You don't have to—"

"Stop it. Stop. Molly, I adore you. I always have."

"But? There is always, always a but…from everyone. For me. Always a but…"She turns away and begins shuffling papers, digging in files and without thinking compiling the forms she will need.

He approaches her whirlwind slowly. He has no jest in his voices as he quietly tries to explain. "I'm not good enough for you. I am selfish and stubborn and impulsive and obsessive. I can be cruel and—"

"Do you think I don't know that? God, I have been here for four and a half years, letting you weasel things out of me that have come, this close, to getting me fired. I don't care? I am quite aware of who you are, Sherlock. I will never be John, and that's even ok. But don't treat me like I'm too fragile and wretched to even consider that I might know what an arse-hole you actually are and like you anyway. Say it's because I'm the wrong gender, ugly or unattractive or because my figure looks like a stick or I am a frumpy old maid. But don't turn into someone you're not, or play those tired old lines everyone else uses. Don't tell me you're unworthy when we both know it has nothing to do with it. That is so patronizing." She is breathless in her anger.

"I am always on my best behavior with you. Think about that. How many times have I wounded you? How many times have I made you feel horrible? That is the best I can do. You can't imagine what I'm really like." He looks just above her head, thoughtful distance in his expression and laughter sparkles with glassy eyes.

He takes a deep breath and blanks his face and meets her eyes hard and cold. He leans into her personal space, intimidating and forceful. There is no interrupting him, he makes sure to speak as fast as possible to overwhelm her with a little Sherlock truth. " I feel nothing most of the time. I hate people in general and rarely pass up an occasion to tell them. Why should I? I like giving back to the community of morons who dare judge me. Some people, like yourself, I find tolerable. I like you and you haven't got the self-preserving instinct to not like me, so I make some effort if you're useful and if you survive that, I might progress to the point of genuinely caring. That complicates things so mostly I bury it because you caring for me, is of no favor to yourself. You have never seen me six days from a shower and caked in vomit from my last near fatal foray into the recreational substances of choice. You have never seen me in a strait-jacket, screaming obscenity that would be so focused and evil and could hurt you so powerfully that you might go out and drink yourself into liver failure. You have never seen me in darkness, refusing to eat or experimenting with sexual partners and wallowing in misery so terrible it drives them all away. You have never seen me when the brain goes into a loop and I can't shut it down and I wander the streets in madness, and return home with no memory of what I've done but sporting a case of fleas or head lice. I can't maintain a real job or any form of stability.'

" Mycroft sends me handlers. Did you know that? Can't prove it, but I think John might be one. Lestrade is, most certainly. And no it doesn't matter anymore. Lestrade actually likes me sometimes. And, because I am bonded to John far beyond my normal ability to register emotional connection and my answer to that has not been some very nice things. I raped him. He will never get over it, I imagine. I am responsible for giving a wounded soldier and the man I call my best friend, the worst emotional wound he's ever experienced. I have used an experimental mind altering substance I am not sure is safe on him, just to find out his secrets. He doesn't know. It may or may not have caused a mild seizure. He has no privacy. I am more stalker than friend. And right this minute, I have no intention of keeping my promise not to leave him if it means his life. I won't let him confront Moriarty because he is my greatest weakness. I don't know how many more forgiveness passes he has in him. I used them up. I will betray him in a few hours one way or another. I won't let another person die for me. I won't let him. I'm selfish, I want the easy road. I'm nothing. My life is nothing.'

" I ruin everything I touch. Mycroft loved me once and I beat his heart to death for the entertainment of making him react. His weakness is my mother, she likes me better. I use it against him just like Jim will use John against me. Five people I have managed to care for just a little, have committed suicide. One addressed his note to me and plainly stated I had done this to him. Another, left my bed and stepped in front of a train, no note but, we had argued. One lives on my fireplace mantle. He didn't commit suicide so much as didn't protect himself from harm. I found him. I boiled his head in a pot and bleached his skull, wired the jaw in place and I talk to him almost every day, to remind myself precisely what my ego and my idiocy can do. I murdered seven people in two days and it didn't bring him back to me."

He smiles wickedly and bends close to her face, "Go on Molly, tell me your little secrets and hope to God I don't turn my wandering eye your way and give in to your little fairytales of love. You see, I love you enough Not to. I think you are far too brilliant to be swept away and debauched the way you should be and I would be more than happy to send you away unable to walk properly, because you are one of the most genuinely lovely women I have ever met. You make me angry that you might think it is your flaws that stay my notice of you. I am being patronizing but not the definition of it you used. I am your patron. I am protecting you from the third most dangerous and second most evil man you will ever meet and I protected you from the one you were dating that holds the number one slot on both counts. So still think you want to be kissed by Sherlock Holmes and raked across the coals with me?" He smirks and leans in to kiss her. He hesitates just before their lips touch, knowing she will allow him to push her to any level he's willing to go. He lets her see his desire for her, just for a moment, and the little hitch in her breath, soothes the moment when he considers forgetting it all and just letting it happen. "I'm probably going to die tomorrow, my dear sweet Molly Hooper, so…Don't …Tempt…Me." He says the last part letting her really see what an intense bloody bastard he is.

He stands back and never completes the kiss. He is undoubtedly about to take his last breath tomorrow and if he were to grasp this sexual tension and allow himself the comfort, it would be distracting enough to guarantee he would never view the next sunset. He turns off his intensity and blinks several times to gentle his eyes.

Molly stands there with a vacant expression and finally her trembling hand goes to her mouth. "It's a rain-check then."


	14. Chapter 14, part 2, Erysimum absolution

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned, part 2, Erysimum Absolution  
**Summary**:_ It isn't easy to plan for all the possible horrible outcomes. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**_Erysimum Absolution _**_(wallflower forgiveness)_

**_So I run to the river, it was boilin'  
I run to the sea, it was boilin'_**

His eyebrows go down in confusion. "What did you say?"

"I want a rain-check. When this is all over? You will kiss me. Like that. Like we almost, just now, and we will see about that temptation thing. No strings. But after, "she swallows, "When you have time to kiss me and because you want to, not because you might die."

Sherlock relaxes and chuckles, giving her a little shrug of agreement. "I guess that says you don't scare quite as easily as I expected and that you still mean to help me. I overestimated your common sense, if not your intelligence." He didn't say it as a question.

"I have been thinking. I have some ideas." She says getting out a pencil and piece of paper.

"Wait, while I was speaking to you? Willfully trying to intimidate you? You were thinking, about my death? How flattering." He drops the last two words into his deepest sarcastic purr.

"Shut up. You may be brilliant, about one purpose at a time, but I process lots of things, in no particular order. It makes me sound ridiculous. I know what everyone thinks. Can't finish a sentence half the time. This isn't about brilliant. This is about fooling people into seeing what they want to see and that does happen to be my area." She chews her lips as she sketches out what she intends to do.

Sherlock watches her, fascinated. They brainstorm and Sherlock does all he can to copy the probable injury from a fall on pavement, doing his best to obscure the identity of his double, while making him a passible version of himself. It won't hold up to a careful examination, but it would if John is disoriented. Sherlock worries that he will have another seizure if he gives him the pure form of H.O.U.N.D. He argues with himself for a moment, but he has no choice and prepares four solutions. Molly will have one, a bike will be stationed nearby in case John doesn't cooperate, one of the fake paramedics will have one and the last one will be with him.

Molly looks at the cadaver with a detached critical eye."Pretty good. You need to crush the skull more, it would be more lopsided, and we can change out his eyes, but I should be the only one to look. Here, need you to fake your brother's signature. Have to get him out of here before anyone thinks to question much. I will bring the spare clothes in the morning and get him all ready. I just hope John isn't there when I go to collect them. You contact your network and I will figure out some way to get enough personnel costumes for them. It will be chaos, to any observer so it doesn't have to be perfect. I can raid the employee lockers; we'll see what I get. You need to get a move on and make sure they keep this parameter clear. They have to keep your blood cool. Make sure they know that. Make them practice. Trolleys are more complicated than they look."

Sherlock nods. "I have twelve for sure, so far. Meeting them two blocks away. Of course none of them are trained, so that doesn't work out so well, should I actually, be damaged."

"You won't unless you miss. I got you the airbag set up on a lorry. He doesn't know what kind he can get his hands on yet. But his idea is faster than street set up. My fireman friend's idea. May be harder for you to hit properly, but he's sure it will work. I promise we can trust them. William and Randy. They owe me."

"It might work. The only fear is that if I am damaged, I can't be screaming. But if I take some sort of paralytic, stop breathing, now you have two of us to get rid of. If I take a pain blocker, I will be too disoriented to survive in the first place. A screaming corpse won't be very convincing. It all hinges on Jim not letting his snipers take me out and throwing my shuddering carcass off the side of the building anyway. God, every solution leads to six more problems."

"No. It hinges on you being clever and you are. I will be there. I'll know if you're hurt and John isn't technically your only Doctor. Don't lose your temper. This is ready. It will work if it has to. I am sure we won't need it. Now let me get your blood and the DNA samples should be ready. We can paste them into your records. Sherlock, I would think he's you now. But you have to tell John. Not so he gets it at once, but some hint. You can't let him go for days, thinking this stop gap is true."

"Agreed. Time of death could still give us away. John can spot it. He won't have to look closely."

"Then you have to send him away. I can have Randy make a call. An emergency out of town? His sister? Who would he leave you for?"

"No. It should be something about Mrs. Hudson. He will worry, but not fall apart. Out of town takes too much planning. It would take him long enough to sort it out that it was a fake and she won't be popping up unexpectedly. Plenty of time. I'm going to kill Moriarty. Not date him…sorry. You know what I mean. Shouldn't take long. Even if we have to go through with the 'suicide' he wants. I will kick him away and do my best to hit your mark. Hopefully he lands on the sidewalk and I land in the truck top. If he pushes me, I will try to get there and not on the other side. He will probably look down but I will use my atomizer on him to disorient him."

Molly takes a breath and goes over her list again, speaking to herself and Sherlock."We can do the ex-rays and dental after, if we need too. Ok, I will be back in a few hours. I'll get dead-you dressed then. You should rest, but I know you won't. Just don't get caught." She giggles. "You know, if he has this magic code and you could get it, couldn't you just make him whoever you want again? Are you sure you have to even bother with this confrontation?"

"Ahhh, yes, but I don't have it. I don't know what it is or how to use it. And most of all, I am out of time."

"I don't know if you have thought about it, but if you gave John the option, and the two of you just vanished, like your brother wants…it would save all this and the outcome isn't so different is it? Sorry, I need you to disrobe, for the pictures."

Sherlock blushes slightly, but he quickly nods and does as she asks. He makes a face as his skin comes in contact with the cold metal of the autopsy table. He tries not to think of all the body fluid particles he's currently wallowing in. "It is actually. He got to Mycroft in some way. I don't know how, but I know. I can't trust his damned shadows. He doesn't trust them. Puts him in danger and therefore John and I would never be safe. He owns the secrets now. And how do I let others die, while I hide. If he knows I am alive, he will go back to bombing. He might murder a hundred people a day, to teach me a lesson. It's me he wants. Yes, I am handing myself over to him, but I have four escape plans, six ways of finishing this with good results, two that are still acceptable though result in me not ever seeing John again, and one to prevent catastrophic failure. Something will work out."

Molly positions him as she wants, pulling his head into an odd angle to simulate the beginnings of rigor mortis. "Tighten you jaw, these would be taken a few hours after, I can dupe the slight lividity with photo editing. But I want to make sure I get a few of the real you, eyes open, so I can move my incisions onto your frame seamlessly. The body will be gone so these have to be exact. Sorry."

"Am I to be your forensic pathologist porn, Molly?"

She snorts a laugh, "Don't make jokes. I could start a website. I will in fact. If you die I will sell the photos to that horrid woman up in IT. Maybe even the ones I took without the drapes."

Sherlock's eyes are locked on her filling with disbelieving rage. "Molly." He challenges with his usual warning to her.

"Just don't actually die. Ok. Just blackmailing you not to die," she says from behind the camera, flashing it in his eyes.

"But you will still have these photos. I'll have no way to insure you don't pirate a copy away for use against me at some time when you're less enchanted with my continued existence."

"Really? Still not looking. Silly man."

"Head's a bit fuzzy tonight. Always trusted you, besides you would be better off exposing my little Frankenstein projects than my pasty bits. I've never been exactly bio-hazard compliant."

She laughs and finishes up, "Well that was rather more fun for me than is quite advisable."

He shook his head, but she doesn't really mean it to offend him so he lets her have her joke."Thank you." He says once he's fully dressed again.

Molly nods. "If it were me, and I loved someone. I'd call them and spend the last hours…with them. Randy will call him away when it's time. He will convince him. Be better if we knew where John is at, until then. Jim loves surprises. Not very nice ones."

Sherlock kisses her on the forehead. "Thank you my very wise…friend."

She nods. Her hand is on the handle and she doesn't turn to look at him, but she clears her throat and says softly, "And just so you know. That stuff you said. I already knew some of it. People love to tell me all about what a terrible person you are. They think they're helping. I have heard lots worse about you than any of that. People are stupid. They think I have lost my mind or something, pining for you. I think anybody who doesn't kind of fall in love with you, is mad. I don't regret it."

Sherlock says nothing but once she's gone and he's totally alone in the dark morgue, for just a moment, he shudders with a few luxurious silent sobs. None of his silent companions notice. The thought suddenly occurs to him he may be spending tomorrow night right here, no longer noticing the tears and troubles of the living.

His troupes of actors are scripted and know their places. Sherlock has said a few words of kindness here and there, just in case. Funny, how little judgment he finds in the eyes of those judged worthless by others. It is why he's always been so comfortable among these dregs and misfits.

He makes his way to the lab a few minutes later and texts John. He sits down on the floor and does something mindless as he runs through all the scenarios that could play out in a few hours. He has some moments in which he doubts John will bother to come, and then he fears he can't. When John's footsteps finally sound up the hallway, he lets his breath out in relief. His face is perfectly composed by the time John crashes into the room, full of emotion and hurry.

He hands him the same line that he'd handed Mycroft, about the key code being his plan. He can barely meet his direct gaze and knows he's going to probably disappoint those trusting blue exhausted eyes.


	15. Chapter 15, part 2, Devil Waiting

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned, Part 2, Devil Waiting  
**Summary**:_ Sherlock waits and his plan begins. John leaves to be with Mrs. Hudson in her final moments and Sherlock has much more going on than his friend can imagine. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

** _I ran to the devil, he was waitin'  
Ran to the devil, he was waitin'  
All on that day  
I cried – _**

Sherlock watched John sleep and rather than keeping his mind on what he needed to focus on, he just watched the way his face was relaxed and he wasn't snoring exactly but his cheeks puffed out slightly with each exhale. There are things he wants to say, but doesn't dare. Mostly he wants to say he is just so sorry for all the incredibly stupid things he's ever done to John.

In his mind he composes eloquent notes and sonnets for John, but it would be cruel to leave him some bloody scribbles of assurances or allow him to believe that Sherlock planned to betray him. He just wishes he knew what the outcome will be, because if he had no hope of living, he would leave him something, some word of encouragement, some thought or at least say the most important of things.

How do you really make up for betrayal in a few lines or words? Words mean nothing when the actions are so hurtful. Most of these outcomes will hurt John. Even the good ones.

He warned him how this would play out. Did he remember?

Hell, that is what he may do. He may accept Moriarty's offer. He may just fly away, truly fall. What the hell did it matter in the end? If he is truthfully prepared to die, why not see what damage he could cause to the spider's web first? From the inside, he could be the bomber. It is what Jim has been hinting about all along. Go play his game with him. Entertain him. Let's show the world what real fun is. It isn't so very far from his true personality. The side of the angels? More like the last one to ever choose a side.

The side of justice isn't really his place. If it were he would be more inclined to actually attempt to work within the rules. No, he was never involved in the great quest for truth and honor. He never wanted to be on the right side so much as he just always needed to be right. He liked the fact that he could prove others wrong, and solves the puzzles, much more than all the altruistic meaningless good attributed to him, yet when people saw something noble in his actions, it did reward his efforts. He had come to rely on the fact that others assumed he was special. He had carefully fostered that impression because it logically led to new puzzles.

Moriarty offered him puzzles within puzzles. The problem was, he could see Jim too clearly, just as he saw Sherlock. Jim could only be entertained by those he didn't see perfectly clearly and Sherlock knew what his blind spot was. He needs to dazzle people. He needs to be pursued and made to feel like he is beautiful in his darkness. He needs to be with someone who can beat him and still worship his ability. These two things could never exist at the same time, and so Jim, is constantly disappointed. If a person loves Jim, he will make them hate him. If he sees they can't love him, he becomes obsessed with creating all the things needed to tempt them to try.

It could take months to earn his total trust. The mind games would be brutal and unrelenting.

Mycroft has been trying to recruit Sherlock to play in the political mind games he deals in daily, more now than ever. Sherlock has always scoffed at the notion, not wanting to be under his brother's constant scrutiny more than he already is. He could fake his death to convince Jim of his sincerity. He could disappear from all contact, and gain the inside view of all the criminal activity.

Of course, he would have little probable warning when or if Jim ever found a mistake. One contact with his former life. One message to Mycroft, intercepted by a person within the government, and his cover is blown. But, if he doesn't assure Mycroft, he will be at the mercy of Jim and become Mycroft's true enemy. Mycroft would have no plan of extraction, hell until it is determined who the compromised agent or agents are, no plan would be safe. All it would take would be for them to reveal that there is knowledge that Sherlock was still protected by the government in any capacity for him to be brought to failure.

It was a sickening option, but it is a possibility.

He felt as if he had suddenly floated two feet above the ground while the earth spun. It was all ticking away, second by second. He wanted to stay in London, and go back to all the simple pleasures of his world. He wanted time to just bask in the truly noble spirit he'd discovered. He wanted to be near John.

But Jim had been watching him most of his adult life. There was more than some recognition of Sherlock's intelligence or a few of his deals being spoiled. James Moriarty and he had begun together. For years, he'd been trying to catch Sherlock's eye. Before Sherlock had found John, before an army Doctor had ever blogged about his flat-mate, Moriarty had been trying to seduce him into his world. He wondered if Carl was his first crush and Sherlock had replaced him. Only the most desperate seek to fulfill childish dreams when nothing else makes sense. It was all very plain, from the off the peg, but expensive suites, to the impressive displays of cool power. James Moriarty is wanting some grand romance of mind. He wasn't precisely in love, so much as infatuated with the romance of tragic god's on adventure. That was his real game.

Sherlock quietly slipped into the hallway. The phone rang.

A tired voice answered. "I have very little patience for your demands right now. I hope this is not a request for take away to be delivered to Bart's."

"Always said you were useless, but no. You know I have always been glad you were my brother don't you."

"My God are you bleeding? How seriously have you been wounded?"

"I am fine. Do shut up, this is rather important."

"Go on."

"My plan is sound. If something should exceed my calculations, I need to warn you, Moriarty has men within your closest circle. Perhaps more than one. If you see things that disappoint you, just don't forget I am your brother. I will never betray you in the long run, but if I have to sever our ties, know that I am protecting you."

"I don't believe I asked to be protected. I take it you have not located the key code."

""I have it, but it is scrambled and useless. I am going to try to figure out its flaws and destroy it. I will make contact if I can, but don't search, just accept. My guess he is one of your most trusted. It will take time to flush him. Please be careful. I may be stuck in hell for a while."

"No reception there, trust me. But, if this is required, I will make every effort not to repeat my mistakes. I am sorry for-"

"Do stop. You didn't know."

"Sherlock, I just…"

"Keep Mummy away from the media," Sherlock said firmly and disconnected.

He slipped back into the lab and propped his feet up. Molly signaled him through the window an hour later. He nodded at her.

His phone began to go off. But he ignored it, nervously waiting for the call to come through to John.

John's phone rings, rousing him. He's exhausted and grumpy as he grumbles, " Yeah, speaking."  
Sherlock watches his eyebrows come together and his alertness come alive in that way only doctors and soldiers can. Sherlock has always envied this ability of John's. He must have transition time to function.

" Now, what?" John squints, making sure he's heard correctly, buying seconds for him to formulate the best course of action. Sherlock has no doubt that he'd heard the first time, but he knows John will always double check any facts on the off chance he's misunderstood. John stands up, turning to Sherlock, eyes wide and telling Sherlock something serious is occurring. John's eyes are so very expressive.

He tucks his finger in his ear, out of habit, beings it is quiet in the lab. " What happened? Is she okay?" he asks, face changing into fury and sorrow, " Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming."

John composes his face and switches the phone off, knowing he now has to tell Sherlock, the horrible news. He's a professional. John has had to tell lots of people unpleasant things.

Sherlock looks mildly bored, but knows he must feign curiosity. " What is it?"

John's hand rakes through his hair, one of his tells that he's upset but trying to be calm. " Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson." He shakes his head just a tiny bit, not wanting to say the rest, or maybe wishing to deny it. "She's been shot."

Good John, clear, concise, and without preamble. Sherlock tries to figure out how he would react without any sentiment, just surprise. " What? How?" he asks making no effort to move.

John does a double take that Sherlock isn't on his feet. He offers sarcasm which finally escapes to anger, trying to convey how grim this is. "Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract? Jesus. Oh… Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." He stops moving for a second his face all business, not quite understanding why they are not rushing out the door. He turns and heads away, hoping Sherlock will get the hint.

_"_ You go. I'm busy." Sherlock says to John's back. This isn't going well. That was stupid. John is going to catch on.

John twirls, mid-step. His face contorts trying to get the single word out that has collided with all the emotions Sherlock would be feeling as well, if this were real. "Busy?" John shuts down for split seconds trying to assess if he's not made this emergency clear to Sherlock.

He can't quite meet his gaze as he remains aloof; trembling in fear that John may latch onto his neck and drag him out the door. "Thinking. I need to think." It worked for the cab last night. Will John buy it again?

John is dumbfounded. His face clicks through four emotions at once as he practically spits his next words. " You need to?" his mouth moves on the last word 'think' but no sound comes out. He looks around, swallows and locks all his command back to Sherlock's face. " Doesn't she mean…anything? To you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

Yes, of course, dear John, you do know me so well. Sherlock pretends he is annoyed at his decision being questioned. Just go, John. Please God, just let him go. " She's my landlady."

His patience hit's fury and fury wins. " She's dying ..." he says bluntly. He gestures to accent his last words. "You…Machine!"

Sherlock meets his eyes, cold mask fixed at being called a machine.

John looks down shaking his head, defeated and slumps in bitter disappointment. It is burned into his body language how massively he detests his flat-mate at this exact moment. John is finished with him. Sherlock sees the exact moment his friend stops being his blogger. Sherlock feels it like a blow, barely able to draw breath. Still, this is required. John looks at him, eyes dark, face throbbing with his anger, but his voice does not rise as he says,_ "_ Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."

John points a condemning finger at him and the message is plain, he  
means not just for the moment, he will no longer have one friend. It is a gesture of both finality and separation.

" Alone… is what I have. Alone, protects me." Sherlock says, because he doesn't know what else to say. It is the only way he can convey that he forgives his friend for his words. He knows how it will be taken but he hopes if this goes badly, that John might look back and see that Sherlock is, in fact, offering him a gesture of acceptance. I don't mind being alone, John. Not this time. I can die for you, but I don't want die with you. It would be too costly to my soul knowing it isn't necessary for you to be harmed. Please forgive me.  
" No." John has found that cold deathly calm of his that serves him so well. His eyes flash at Sherlock, and Sherlock knows that if Mrs. Hudson were dying, John would never speak to him again. These are intended to be last words. You have betrayed me and I no longer protect you. There is nothing inside you for me to care about. "No. Friends… protect people." _And you have failed_, he delivers with a parting look before storming out the door.

Sherlock takes a deep sigh, and he watches the door for twenty heartbeats. There is both relief and pain that John has left. If John came back in the room this second, he would see the sociopath feels grief and shame quite plainly.

His phone beeps_._

[I'm waiting...JM]

Sherlock stands and stiffens his posture into his most regal bearing. He locked away all his faded last vision of some idealistic parting, not dwelling on the disappointment in the blue eyes, yet feeling the kiss of heartbreak hot and needful at his throat. He mechanically adjusts his scarf and puts on his coat.

He took the stairs to the roof and the sound of music greeted him, surreal in the blue skies and quickly gathering clouds. The heavens were churning for battle and the two warriors silently greeted each other, swords aching for the blood of the damned.

The battle hymn played on James Moriarty's phone, tinny and with eerie remembrance of a day when that song saved him. Irene flitted through his mind. She would mourn in her own way. She'd even said that once. Maybe, if she were feeling very kind, she would explain it all to John, face to face. With Jim dead, she could actually return to London, if she wanted.

Stayin' aliiiiiivvvvvvvvveeeee.

" Ahhhhhh. Here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem. The final problem," he says softly and holds the phone up with a fleeting grin. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring. Isn't it?"

_Actually I intend to stay that way, thank you._ Sherlock strolls toward him, watchful but refusing to let this man see any fear. He wonders if he was sighted in at once, but sees no half hidden shadows on any nearby roofs. He looks around; satisfied he's not going to be killed immediately.

"It's just ..._ staying," _Moriarty says with despair as his hand slides away from his face. He buries his face in his hand for a second then turns to look at Sherlock.

_ Why had he been crying? Oh, God, what is he up to?_

* * *

I used more actual dialogue from the series this time, wanting to play with the motive and thoughts as I imagine they could have played out. Doesn't mean I am correct or exact, just that it works with my little mess here. I think it's a bit late to say, spoiler alert, but really, the next chapter is going to spoil my day – so spoiler alert ahead. Please review.


	16. Chapter 16 Devil's Sean Nós

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Dammed, part II, Devil's _Sean Nós_  
**Summary**:_ The real meeting of minds. Daddy and Sherlock dance._

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**_Devil's __Sean Nós_ **

**_But the Lord said, go to the devil  
The Lord said, go to the devil  
He said, go to the devil  
All along dem day_**

" All my life, I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction. And now, I don't even have you. Because, I've beaten you! And you know what? In the end, it was easy.

Sherlock is in observation mode. New suit, never worn. Elevated heart rate and moments of despair. He looks beaten, yet he still holds the cards and wants to win. He's acting like this is just a bother, no longer fun for him. Not good. Indifference to the world. Tears where there should be none. Taking no care for safety. Exhaustion. Oh, no, no, no.

" It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out… you're ordinary. Just like all of them. Oh well." Jim circles Sherlock like a he's looking over a show horse. " Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

" Richard Brook." _Obvious. _  
" Nobody seems to get the joke! But you do? You always get my little jokes. Don't you?"  
"Of course."  
"Tha's a boy."  
" Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach. You referenced the case that made my name."  
" Just tryin' to have some fun. Knew you'd like it. Oh Good. You got that too?"  
" Beats like digits. Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Or, reversed. Binary code. That's why all the assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head. A few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."  
"Told all my clients, 'Last one to Sherlock is a sissy."  
" Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." He smiles with a tiny superior look.  
_He looks shocked that he didn't think of that then the face crumbles into torture. "_ No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy. This is too easy. There _is_ no key, DOOFUS!" Jim takes a deep breath, explaining as if Sherlock is a child, " Those digits? Meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."  
Sherlock can't hide the confusion on his face as well as he wants to and Jim sees it. Oh shit, did not count on that one.  
"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears?" Jim looks at him bashfully as if to say you're not that stupid are you? "I'm disappointed.I'm disappointed in you. Ordinary, Sherlock."  
He can't wrap his mind around the fact his best wheapon has just been voided, again. Just like the damned missle plans. " But the rhythm—" he blurts.  
"Partita number one. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."  
" But then how—"  
" Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Do keep up. Poor little Sherlock, didn't quite understand the game." He spreads his arms as if saying all 'the world is his stage' and he's been…acting.

Oh God, John, I'm sorry. Sherlock closes his eyes for a spilt second.

_"_Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness…" he roles his head, seduction complete. " You always want everything to be clever. I had so much fun with my little game. But it's over, and I have a problem. They all want something…I never had. They all believe it exists, just as stupid as you are. Get us the keycode, Daddy, we want the world parceled out to new royalty."

"That is a problem." Sherlock realizes that all the criminals of the world will want what they were promised. If Jim can't deliver, he's already dead.

"So you see, I am in quite the little quandary."

"And you already took down payments on an item you don't have. A myth."

"Oh but it was such a wonderful fairytale. Prince Sexy and the Hathead. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it. Just so, for my perfect ending."

_Oh John, I will miss you so. I never told you, oh god, I did. I told you then. What more heinous thing could I say to you? Thank god those were not my last words to you. It would always equate to that night. I am so sorry, John, but I didn't lie, I want that to be my final vision in this life, but not the way it was, just how I wanted it to be. Molly, dammit, we gave it a shot._ "Do it? Do – do what?"  
He blinks, and whispers as if shell shocked, "Yes, of course. My suicide."

"Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."  
_Sherlock walks to the edge of the roof and leans forward. His stomach sinks. There is no lorry._

_ Jim smiles up at Sherlock then leans way over the edge, making a face as well._ "Pretty Grimm ones too."  
_  
_Sherlock grasps at a straw. There is no damned lorry. " I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."  
Jim, seems to wilt in frustration, still as if he's speaking to a child, playing the put upon daddy game. " Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. Go on. For me? Pleeeeeease?"

"I could go with you. We could have such fun, like you want."

"why would I want to baby-sit you. You were only fun when I thought you were smart. You aren't. You're stupid and boring. I wanted us to be gods, and you aren't worth it. Besides, you were supposed to come with me a long time ago. Then you met… John. I would have introduced you to all my friends. Would have handed you the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. It is what you really want. Fame. Glory. Your name still spoken four hundred years from now. Take your place beside Vlad the Impaler, Frank Abagnale, Adam Worth, Blackbeard, Billy the kid and Sherlock Holmes could have been greater than them all…."

"For a while. Before you handed me over for slaughter"

"True…Then they would have all heard of my heartbreak and how the Great Sherlock Holmes ruined it for us all. There would have been bits of you memorialized all over the world, Sherlock. Framed nicely like holy relics. Get a bit of history, on ebay. You were my escape strategy. "

_ Sherlock grabs Jim by the collar of his coat with both hands. He shoves him over the edge expecting to see fear. Instead Jim thinks it's funny. _  
Sherlock's eyes widen and he says softly, "You're insane."  
"You're just getting that now?" he holds his arms out at Sherlock's mercy, and he grins.  
Sherlock smiles back, easy answer. Just as he's about to let go, Jim makes a noise from the three stooges and adds, " Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

" Your friends will die if you don't. Every one of them. If you won't kill yourself for me, how about for them? You know those headshots you have been fearing for a while? Live and they each get one, as my special grand prize bonus? I know you. Side of the angels. Fly for them, my little lamb?"  
_"_ John." Sherlock whispers in resolve.  
" Not just John. Everyone."  
" Mrs Hudson."  
" _Everyone."_  
" Lestrade."  
Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now. And that's just today. Three more tomorrow, and the next day and the next… until you fly for daddy."  
Sherlock is stunned and he forgets he was about to drop Moriarty. He pulls him back to safety.  
" Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die today... unless ..."  
"Unless I kill myself. Complete your story."  
_Jim nods, "_ You've gotta admit that's sexier."  
" And I die in disgrace."  
" Of _course_. That's rather the _point_ of all this."He peeks over the side again. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop,"he rolls his head expectantly." Go on. Told you how this ends."

"No. If I die, there is no guarantee you won't kill them anyway."

"That's true. But if you don't, it guarantees I will kill them."

"I will have then put in protection."

"And you will save the loved ones you know, but they will take three of someone's loved ones, until you say.. The End. That's fine though, your friends might be safe, for a while. But their friends are fair game. Lestrade has a pretty little daughter, ogre of an ex-wife, suppose she ought to be tossed from the list, but you know, quotas are important. Mrs. Hudson has a sister she goes off to visit, doing old lady things. Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

" Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?" he is texting Mycroft as he asks. He glances down at Jim. "Please."

[Things have gone badly. Too terrible to xplain. Im sorry. Watch over JW Will always luv u both] he didn't sign it, just hit send and hoped Mycroft would forgive his spelling. His hands were shaking. Still no lorry. It's over and this is how he dies.

"Of course. Take your time, we have plenty of that," Jim says as if he finds Sherlock pathetic. He skulks off shoulders hunched and offended.

Sherlock takes a deep breath trying to think of his life, what it meant, and why this is what he wants. I want to do this. I will do this. I will not die his way, broken and in fear. I will fly. What pops into his mind is the flaw to Jim's game."Of course," he whispers. He grins, then chuckles.

" What? What is it? What did I miss?"

Sherlock hops from the ledge and strutting with the swagger of a victor, making his coat swish just for effect, he purrs in his most superior diction, "You're not going to do it. So the killers can be called off, then. There's a recall code or a word or a number.

Sherlock circles Jim, pleased with himself and now the predator rather than the prey, "I don't have to die ... if I've got you." He sings the last part.  
Jim joins him for his giggle as if he's been caught making a joke, " You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

" Yes. So do you," Sherlock whispers sweetly.

" Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do. He's on the list too, eventually. He's been so very useful. Think baby brother, he had all the cards and who got," he bounces his eyebrows and winks, " to whom?"  
Sherlock towers over Jim, sun to his back like an aura, " Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything? Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you." Sherlock reaches in his pocket as he makes this speech and sprays Jim in the face with H.O.U.N.D. twice for good measure with the tiny atomizer. Sherlock holds his breath carefully giving the mist time to dissipate. Jim doesn't seem to even register the action other than to flutter his eyelids rapidly.  
Jim blinks his eyes and seems a bit dazed. He looks Sherlock over but seems a little off beat, " Naahh. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're just ordinary. You're on the side of the angels," He repeats with a dreamy smile.  
" Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think, for one second, that I am one of them." He gives Jim one more shot, just to make sure. Eyes locked on each other Jim hasn't even seemed to notice the spray.  
Jim looks up at Sherlock for a long time_. Take effect dammit. _Jim again blinks as if the sun is in his eyes, but it is actually the drug if Sherlock is having any luck at all.

Jim's face softens and he becomes much more docile, looking like a naughty little boy who has lost his way. " No, you're not… I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me?"

Sherlock smiles at first slightly, recognizing the effects of the drug, but then he realizes this is not the normal range of response when Jim begins to laugh.

_"_ You're me! Thank you! I was lost. There I am. Mirror Mirror in the room, dance upon my merry tomb. Sherlock…" he says like a prayer. He holds out his hand tears in his eyes and leans into Sherlock with adoration of a crazed fan in his eyes, "Sherlock Holmes."  
Sherlock doesn't like happy-Jim much more than crazy -Jim, but if shaking his hand will make him even more relaxed, he will play along. Just a few more minutes and pleased-to-chat-Jim should kick in and the game is all over with. Kill-code, truth about the Key code, names and ask him to sing a sea chantey, while Sherlock texts Mycroft to come get this compliant bundle of madness. Or maybe he will just see if chatty Jim wants to fly."

_"_ Thank you. Bless you," Jim says pleased to be feeling so helpful. " As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out."

Sherlock smiles and nods slightly getting ready to ask his first major question, knowing he will get the truth.

" Well, good luck with that." Jim says louder and grips Sherlock's hand tightly as he opens his mouth wide and large. A gun is in his hand and Sherlock pulls away fearing he's about to be shot when suddenly Moriarty crams it in his own mouth and locks eyes with Sherlock as he pulls the trigger. His head snaps back and a red mist appears. Sherlock pulls away again, but Jim's hand is locked to his. There is a moment of panic as Sherlock sees the man with half his head missing shudder slightly, go stiff, make a small mewling noise and collapse to the roof. Death tremors shock through James Moriarty then his body goes still and relaxes as blood drains from his head and his eyes flash a maniacal fear before being empty.

Sherlock lets out a cry, but stifles it off and bends to the body. He finds no pulse at the neck, lifts the head and examines the ragged scull, there are still the smallest signs of life making a final exit in the quivering brain matter remaining.  
The process of death complete, Jim lies still. His face still wears a smirk of victory. He searches the pockets for the phone, trying to recall what he saw him do with it after he shut it off. Oh. His mind replays it feeling sick to his stomach_. Jim let it tumble quietly through his fingers and over the side. He is completing his tragedy._ He backs away and stands up, realizing there is now no way to stop the snipers. He raises his coat sleeve to his face, franticly wiping the sticky minute blowback droplets of gore he felt land on him. Sherlock spins away from the body, his breathing noisy and frantic as he raises his hands to his head in horror.

Sherlock flicks through the choices he has remaining. Jim never had the power to stop the snipers. This was his suicide all along. There is someone else, watching through some scope or, god the CCTV cameras, there is no time to track them down. He's never felt so helpless. They could be dying right now. He has no way to find out. If one target goes to ground there are others. People care about Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade has kids, depending on him. Only one person depended on me. I am glad we argued after all, John.

Sherlock reaches in his pocket as he turns toward the ledge. He steps up and blows out his breath, trying to get calm. He looks down and there is still no lorry below_. Oh god. It all fell apart. My little trick didn't have time to work the way I'd hoped. It may have even accelerated Jim's plans. He didn't notice because he didn't care what it was. He always planned for us to die together. They will say I flung myself from the roof because he was some tawdry little affair of mine or some such horrible …fairytales. What will they do to John? They will torture him. They will never leave him in any kind of peace. Mycroft will be ruined for his mere association with me. He's taken my life, but he will ruin the lives of everyone._

He looks down at his phone and hits record.

"This is Sherlock Holmes…and I am about to die...I take this action...I take..."

* * *

_Sean Nós_ - is an old fashioned Irish dance.

Adam Worth - was ACD's inspiration for Prof. Moriarty.

Thanks for reading - please review


	17. Chapter 17, Along dem day

Wings of the Damned

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: Wings of the Damned, Part 2, Along dem day  
**Summary**:_ Sherlock's fall from his perspective. _

**Character/Relationships**: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_**So I ran to the Lord**_

_**I said, "Lord hide me, please hide me"**_

_**"Please help me"**_

_**Along dem day**_

He tucks the phone back in his pocket.

His mind feels calm.

He turns toward the ledge and somehow the cabbies words come back to his mind, "Not bored now, are you?" He takes carefully deep breaths and steps up, one foot then the other.

The transport trusts the brain even though the brain has repeatedly betrayed it. His stomach growls and he wishes he had a cigarette. A last sip of tea for his dry mouth would be heavenly. He wishes he had his violin, he wonders if he would have the control to play it all the way to impact. Of course he would, but what a waste of an instrument.

He's about to waste his mind as well, splatter it below. He feels slightly sick and wonders how John will take the news. John's voice; that would be far above a last supper. He wants his friend's voice more than any other last moments of comfort. He dials.

He should hang up. He sees John get out of the cab. And he's suddenly unsure where the sniper might be. It might not be a sniper, just another madman with a gun. Just an assassin with a hand gun who will walk up to John with a friendly smile and empty five rounds into John's head before anyone has time to scream

John has already figured out that the call was fake and rushed back here. He looks so small from here. He lifts his phone and his watchful eyes dart around, yet he has not noticed the man on the roof. " Hello?"

" John." Sherlock swallows, he can barely speak.

" Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

He doesn't answer that. The answer is no. He should just say something kind. He should say something to ease his mind. " Turn around and walk back the way you came. Now."

" No, I'm coming in."

God no. I have to see you. He looks down as some idiot backs an articulated-lorry onto the curb, and people begin directing it into place. He blows out his breath. Oh God. Molly's friends have arrived. John is going to see this whole mess in just a few steps. " Just do as I ask. Please."

" Where?" John is searching for him, thinking he's hidden somewhere. The lorry is in place, but Sherlock is pretty certain that it won't work. It is too small. He can't hit that tiny target and the bag is stuffed into the frame. It won't work. Any bit of him that exceeds the boundary of the safety bag will be severed. This could be even more gruesome than landing on concrete. If the bag doesn't deflate properly on impact, he will still die. Good God, how did they come up with such a stupid plan.

_"_ Stop there,"he says trying to keep his voice from shaking.

" Sherlock?" John turns around still searching for him.

Sherlock forces his voice to sound calm. " Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

John turns and looks up. Sherlock sees the horror and shock fill John's face as he sees him. It dawns on Sherlock that there are no words of kindness that will ever make this moment better for John. The truth of what is about to happen will forever sever this friendship. John will be left to face all Sherlock's mistakes.

He will try to stand up for Sherlock. People will turn their disgust upon the dissenting voice of his loyal blogger. Moriarty's lies will ruin John's life, if he tries to clear his name. He is probably about to die beings this contraption looks so unsound. John will be tortured with his faith in Sherlock Holmes.

" Oh God," John says, snapping to the conclusion that something horrible is about to take place.

" I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock hesitates, trying to figure out what there really is to say. It settles in his mind that he must actually be cruel now. He will take a last moment of strength from this man and set him free. The destructive shadow of his supposed disgrace must be wiped away from John.

" What's going on?" he says, calm and hopeful that this is not what it appears to be. He assumes there is a great plan and he must only wait for instructions to know what Sherlock needs.

" An apology. It's all true," he says resolved to give John an avenue to survive what the vultures with cameras will try to do to him_. If he denounces me, they won't turn on him. I have botched it all and this fall isn't looking like it's going to be pretty._ That steel frame, on the articulated-lorry, will more than likely slice through him most gruesomely.

" Wh-what?"

" Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock looks behind him at his great 'invention', and he wishes for once that Mycroft were watching and going to swoop in to save him, but there is no rescue this time.  
_"_Why are you saying this?" John's face scrunches up in confusion.

What he needs to say and saying it are two different concepts. He has to stand here and honestly give up not only his life but all that he has ever been. He can barely say the three little words that end who he is in John's eyes. He will turn away or throw the mobile down and leave._ "_ I'm a fake."

" Sherlock ..." his head shakes, but there is doubt.

That's right, hate me John for I love you enough to convince you. He can't stop the tears now, he will become nothing, no pride, no ego, no honor and then he will die just for the man before him. Maybe it makes up for the mistake he made. " The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

John had always been a bit stubborn. " Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... The _first time we met_, you knew all about my sister, right?" John is angry with him, because he has always cared about how he appeared to others. Even hearing it as a confession, John is trying to have faith in his pitiful monster. The fact he is chewing the concept like a bull dog amuses Sherlock. He can't help the smirk that rises to his face. John could always amuse him.

" Nobody could be that clever." He answers, but it is almost a seductive sound. His John, wanting to see and being correct and that pride wells up, speaking of how he taught John this very thing, and now trying to convince him of the impossible, losing that person who is sure of you in every way, is so much harder.

" _You_ could."

_Of course, very good, John_. Sherlock laughs and the love for John swells up in his eyes_. _It is their last laugh. _Back to reality now, you always were such a distraction, John. "_ I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." he wants to scream that all he ever wanted to do was impress John. He sniffs and for a second he wants to tell him, he ventures a double entendre, _"_It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

John closes his eyes, almost giving in, then they fly open ready to shout orders and fight. " No. All right, stop it now." He's done trying to figure this out and he begins walking toward the hospital obviously intending to march up to the roof and drag Sherlock down by the ear like he's been known to do when he gets out of hand.

Sherlock panics, and demands, "No, stay. Exactly. Where you are. Don't move."

Something stops John, the panic or the desperation; he holds his hand up as if wanting to hold him in place. "All right," he says measured and calm.

_"_ Keep your eyes fixed on me." _He knows he has to hurry, John is quickly reaching his threshold of faffing around. "_ Please, will you do this for me?" _Please, in case it is my last breath let my eyes see only you._

" Do what?" he asks, but it really means, 'Yes, anything you ask so long as you don't leave me.'  
Sherlock, stumbles with so many things to say, but he is out of time, so he just says what he can, focused on his flat-mate, his friend, his heart. " This phone call – it's, umm ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"

John's head shakes. His hand becomes too weak to hold the phone, his mind too distracted, as he realizes and calculates how fast he could get to the roof and that it will never be enough. He raises the phone back to his ear and his lips barely move as he mumbles in despair, " Leave a note when?"

Below, one of the drivers, waves. He must go this moment.

" Goodbye, John." He says simply and tosses the phone onto the roof. It's only polite to say goodbye, at least he got to this time.

_**Confucius taught: Our greatest glory is not, in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.**_

_**I will rise.**_

Sherlock took one breath, spread his arms and prayed they would turn to wings. And with no count or tension, just perform this act like he would sip tea, he stepped out before he lost his nerve. The urge to scream hit him when his stomach first felt the gravitational acceleration. He flailed and his legs involuntarily tried to swim or run, unable to figure out how to save the stupid computer this time.

He bit off the urge to scream, because he heard John. John is in anguish and he landed flat on the lorry, the airbag hurt but suddenly there was no more movement and other than being unable to breath, he knew he would live. He pulled the rubber tubing on each arm tight knowing it would stop blood flow and pulse. His skin would cool by the time the network let John touch him, just for a second. By now he should be getting a dose of H.O.U.N.D. and he would see exactly what he's told to see.

There are hands dragging him from the compartment, Molly sedates him, telling him calmly he has a dislocated shoulder and he feels the pavement and the first sprinkles of rain, there are drops put in his eyes and hands on him. Something splashes in his face. He is aware, but it is warped and far away, he feels paralyzed. If he stops breathing, they don't have long to get him tubed, before he suffocates. He and Molly calculated the dose carefully, but it is always a guess, especially with him.

His ears work fine and he can hear John. So different from that night. He would have been fine if this happened after that. Stupid, he should have, thought. John sounds broken, he is saying his name over and over. He's lifted onto a hospital surgery trolly, and wheeled away.

Just in time, he's screaming inside, his face is covered and air is forced in his lungs. He is panicked and tears of relief flood his nearly blind eyes. "I've got you. It worked. Now just wait for Mycroft and probably Greg. Don't worry, I'm right here and I will breathe for you, as long as it takes."

Mycroft Holmes glared down at the body. "Sherlock. You are not fooling me." He said watching closely. "He moved."

Molly looked down and she began to cry. He was taking too long. Sherlock was not breathing on his own yet and her watch seemed to be racing along while his brother poked, prodded and cajoled his brother to stop this game. "It is normal. He was pronounced. His body temperature is consistently dropping, his pupils are fixed and dilated, he is clearly…clearly. I have checked at least a hundred times." Molly began sobbing uncontrollably. It worked just as Sherlock had suggested it would. Mycroft made a quick exit, fine with trying to annoy his brother to return to life, but unable to deal with someone being emotional about him. On his way out the door, Mycroft demands he be sent the file before it is released.

She raced to fit the mask on his face again, He looked at her and winked. "Oh God. I thought you were dying."

"ssorr offfff va idea." He says with rubber for lips and gravel for sound.

"Joh-nn?"

"I don't know. He hasn't come. I think Greg is trying to calm him down. A bit." Molly says.

"mmmy hurt?"

"A bit. Don't worry."

"Ok, time to stain you up with some liver mortis and I need to get you undressed. Good thing you aren't shy." Molly says quietly.

Sherlock lays under the sheet for four hours, while the drug wears off. Molly bathes him and and prepares him for viewing, just as she would any corpse. People whisper about her and peek at her from time to time, but nobody else arrives to view Sherlock. The second corpse is brought out of hiding just as Jim is discovered and brought off the roof. She checks him in while Sherlock hides under her desk, dressed in scrubs and murderously uncomfortable.

By two p.m. Sherlock sits in a wheelchair, head wrapped like a mummy, wounds dressed, arm in a sling. He sits next to the display cooler, as if mourning a loved one. Molly whispers explanation and most people quickly view who they came to see, and leave. Only Lestrade comes to see Sherlock. Molly is just finishing up the post mortem, dumping the organs back in the cavity in no particular order. Greg glares at her as if this standard procedure is somehow insulting. He stands there, his posture dancing between seasoned detective, devastated friend, and angry father.

Molly waits for him to nod for her to pull the sheet back. "How bad?"

"Awful. Just, awful. I'm sorry. I did what I could, but it…"

"Mycroft identified him?"

"There was less swelling and rigor hadn't made the face so…"

"Ok. I know, just do it."He growls.

"You don't have to, you know. Sometimes, it's better."

"I have to. I have to, or I will always…It's my fault. I did this to him. He expected better of me."

Molly hears a breath suck in behind her, she clears her throat as Greg focuses his attention on the man. "Uhemm. Newly wed. So sad," she whispers. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't."

Greg nods and Molly lifts the sheet. "Oh. Jesus, Bloody Hell." Greg waves his hand that he's seen enough.

Molly distinctly hears snickering, though as she turns, it at once, is replaced by poorly faked, pretend sobbing. Greg has covered his own eyes with his hands and Molly rolls hers at the completely ludicrous scene.

"Has, John…seen this?" Lestrade asks.

"He hasn't been here."

"Good. Well that's good. Doctor or not, I ain't letting him see that. Jesus you made a mess this time, you bloody git."

"Excuse me?" Molly says.

"Oh no. Sorry. Him, not you. Don't, for the love of God, let John in here." Lestrade leaves and goes back up on the roof.

It is dark now and he takes Sherlock's phone out of his pocket and plays the recording again. The lights of London sparkle in the distance and Greg only sees the dark and knows every one of those lights will burn out at some point but up higher, above London, the truly brilliant lights will shine long past the small garish ones overwhelming them. He listens to the voice, and tries to erase the vision of his end with the moments when he was at his most shining. His blood still stains the sidewalk and people don't notice it as they make their way home in the dark.

**_This is Sherlock Holmes…and I am about to die...I take this action...I take...this action with full knowledge of its implications and consequences. Please see that this is played for Detective Inspector Lestrade. Greg, distance yourself from me as much as possible. _**

**_Don't fall with me._**

**_I know you will try to blame yourself and seek to return my name to light, but that path will only bring you darkness, my dear friend. There is danger and if you find an unseen enemy, who makes your stomach boil with recognition, walk away. Have quiet faith in me Greg, but do not take my whipping upon yourself or advance your own disgrace in my stead. Let my name alone stand at their mercy._**

**_I will burn in the heretic's fire alone. Let them laugh at me and drag me through the streets while you remember who I was like a forbidden scripture._**

**_For all the times you stood for me, scolded me and came running to my aid, know that I did consider you above all, a good man and truly, London's finest. The only one in the Yard. Thank you for all the years. _**

**_One last favor, watch over John. There is an obscure gloom to him, I cannot name, but if he should fine unexpected tones, come to nightfall and take arms against things that he and I shared, please guide him away. Tell him, it matters no more and not to follow my larks of insanity. _**

**_Protect his life as you once did mine. Be kind to Mycroft. Both of you? He will be so alone and do take dear, Mrs. Hudson to tea while I am away. I shall miss you all…you bunch of sentimental fools. I will be so bored without you. Farewell."_**


End file.
